JOSIPH  MCDONOUGH 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


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ALONG    THE    BOSPHORUS. 


M. 


s 


i 


r 


Hi/^^  •:■■-■  '^M 


The  Li(rht  of  the  Harem. 


FRONTISPIECK, 


Along  the  Bosphorus 


AND  OTHER  SKETCHES 


SUSAN   E.  WALLACE 

(MJeS.  LEW  WALLACE), 

AUTHOR  OF  "GINERVA,  OR  THE  OLD  OAK  CHEST,"  "THE  STORIED 

Sea"  "The  Land  of  the  Pueblos,"  "The 
Repose  in  Egypt." 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW   YORK: 

RAND,  McNALLY  &  CO..  PUBLISHERS, 


1898. 


t.-^\ 


Copyright,  1898,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 


/xi^ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE 

I— ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS 5 

The  Mohammedan  Sunday. 
Feast  of  Bairam. 
Buying  a  Dog. 
Under  the  Cypresses. 
Seraglio  Point. 
Throne  Room. 
Imperial  Treasury. 
II— LEPERS  AND  LEPROUSY  IN  THE  EAST,    69 

III— A  TRIP  TO  HEBRON 79 

IV— GYPSIES  I  HAVE  SEEN 103 

V— HOUSEKEEPING  IN  TURKEY      .     .     .     .113 

VI— AT  BETHLEHEM 123 

VII— IN  THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES  .     .  129 
The  Little  Princes. 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
Lady  Arabella  Stuart. 
The  Earl  of  Essex  and  His  Ring. 
Henry  the  Eighth. 
The  Virgin  Queen  Imprisoned.- 

VIII— A  FAIR  CLIENT'S  STORY 195 

IX— WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY 239 

X— AMONG    THE    PALACE    GALLERIES   OF 

FLORENCE 259 

XI— LETTER  FROM  DRESDEN 281 

XII— A  REMINISCENCE .   285 

XIII— ABOUT  BOOKS '  .     .  291 

XIV— FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE 299 

XV— TWO  DAYS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY    .  305 
Introductory. 
Historic. 
Andre. 

Mary  Queen  of  Scotts. 
Queen  Elizabeth. 
Catharine  de  Valois. 
Anne  Boleyn. 
The  Chair  of  State. 
Poets'  Corner. 
XVI— THE  CHAIN    OF    THE  LAST  SLAVE   OF 

MARYLAND 377 


iM30d4<^6 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Steamer  Provence,  July  24,   1881. 
On  the  Mediterranean, 

Bound  for  Constantinople. 

It  is  like  adding  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel 
to  attempt  anything  new  in  these  old  regions 
where  there  were  settlements  before  the  first  of 
Moguls  was  enthroned  at  Delhi,  when  Rome  was 
the  name  given  to  a  few  straw-built  sheds  on  the 
Palatine.  Happily  there  are  always  young  read- 
ers to  whom  the  world  is  fresh  as  when  the  fairest 
of  women  first  opened  her  eyes  and  the  evening 
and  the  morning  were  the  seventh  day.  So  I 
take  heart  for  my  journal  notes. 

At  last  we  behold  with  our  own  eyes  the  sight 
that  has  been  a  longing  and  a  despair  to  us  for 
more  than  thirty  years.  The  sacred  sea — next 
to  Galilee — ^where  men  strove  with  gods  in  the 
ancient  times  when  the  heavens  were  nearer  to  us. 
The  moon  is  at  its  full  and  the  mild  air,  the  pleas- 
ant boat,  the  slow,  soft  motion  are  enchanting. 
Last  night — the  purple  night  of  Homer — ^we 
heard  the  sirens  singing  among  their  beds  of 
scarlet  poppies  and  fadeless  asphodel,  and  in  the 


2  INTRODUCTORY. 

farness  of  the  distance  airy  shapes  and  beckoning 
hands  saluted  us.  The  volcanoes,  Etna  and 
Stromboli,  reddening  the  sky,  are  the  only  re- 
minders that  the  earth  is  not  all  peace.  Against 
a  horizon  free  of  every  taint  of  mist  or  fog  float 
soft  white  clouds  that  they  tell  us  are  islands.  The 
sweetest  breeze  that  ever  blew  is  blowing  now, 
dimpling  the  turquoise  blue  water.  Our  heads 
are  full  of  Byron  and  the  other  poets  who  have 
told  what  we  feel  but  cannot  tell. 

These  are  the  waters  in  which  Ben-Hur  pulled 
the  oars  of  the  Astrea  when  he  was  a  galley  slave, 
one  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  chained  to  the 
benches.  I  ask  the  hero's  father,  who  walks  the 
deck  or  leans  over  the  rails  like  one  in  a  trance, 
if  it  is  as  he  imagined. 

"Yes,  only  by  day,  the  Islands  are  too  bare  and 
sterile;  exactly  like  the  rocky  mountains  in  the 
Territories."  The  sea  has  beauty  enough  for  sea 
and  land  and  if  we  had  ordered  the  weather  we 
would  not  have  known  how  to  describe  such  days 
and  nights  to  the  Maker  of  both. 

We  are  nearing  the  track  of  the  galley  that 
ended  in  the  sea-fight  and  rescue  of  Arrius  the 
Tribune.  The  water  is  so  clear  I  shall  presently 
look  for  the  seal  ring  of  the  noble  Roman  that 
the  foolish  boy  tossed  overboard  when  it  was  the 
only  witness  of  a  will  in  which  life  and  death  were 


INTRODUCTORY.  3 

involved.  I  mean  to  look,  too,  for  the  bridal 
rings  of  the  Adriatic  dropt  from  the  Bucentauro 
ages  ago;  they  may  have  drifted  down  here  and 
be  visible  among  the  sea  fans  and  corals  if  the 
mermaids  have  not  picked  them  up.  No  wonder 
the  Prince  of  Poets  was  blind;  doomed  to  wan- 
der among  arid  hills  without  grass  or  cooling 
shadow  except  from  crags  of  burnt  out  lava.  A 
few  terraced  vineyards  tell  how  the  poor  make  a 
scant  living,  and  baskets  of  snails  brought  to  the 
piers  are  offered  for  sale.  The  men  have  niurder- 
ous  faces,  they  wear  red  girths  round  their 
waists,  swarm  the  piers  and  act  as  though  they 
would  tear  us  to  pieces  if  we  do  not  let  them 
paddle  us  ashore.  We  say  no,  no;  they  stand 
and  stare  awhile  and  then  roar  like  wild  beasts. 
The  Greek  blood,  thinned  by  many  an  alien 
strain,  beats  warm  in  the  hearts  of  the  Levan- 
tines. The  women  are  bareheaded  except  for 
their  rich  braids  of  jet-black  hair,  held  by  a  long 
stiletto  hairpin  of  antique  pattern;  which  orna- 
ment on  occasion  may  serve  as  a  dagger.  Here 
and  there  among  them  is  a  face  beautiful  enough 
for  Helen  or  Sappho. 

We  passed  Scylla  and  Charydbis  with  hardly  a 
ripple.  It  is  said  that  under  contrary  winds  a 
strong  whirl  makes  navigation  dangerous  in  the 
Strait  (Messina),  but  I  lean  to  the  belief  that  the 


4  INTRODUCTORY. 

ancient  poets  lived  on  their  imaginations,  per- 
haps because,  Hke  some  modern  bards,  they  had 
not  much  else  to  live  on.  The  winds  and  the 
waves  have  calling  voices  and  answer  each  other 
yet  in  songs  that  may  well  beguile  heroes  from 
their  duty  to  idle  drifting  away,  away,  where? 
Who  knows;  who  cares?  So  it  is  not  to  the  dull 
shore.  A  little  boat  goes  by  reminding  me  of  the 
bark  in  which  Romola  floated  out  to  sleep  and 
forgetfulness  of  the  broken  dreams  of  her  girl- 
hood. Whatever  befalls,  nothing  can  rob  us  of 
this  precious  possession,  the  sweet,  sweet  voyage 
on  this  tideless  sea.  It  deserves  every  song  sung 
about  it;  a  dream  come  true  whose  witchery  no 
waking  words  can  tell;  nothing  seen  in  the 
valley  of  vision  is  equal  to  the  reality. 


My  thanks  are  with  the  Messrs.  Harper,  through  whose 
courtesy  I  am  allowed  to  reprint  The  Tower  of  Many 
Stories.  Also,  I  acknowledge  my  debt  to  The  Independent 
and  to  the  respective  editors  of  the  Sunday  School  Tim£s, 
Frank  Leslie's  Magazine,  Youth's  Companion,  Bacheller 
Syndicate,  McClure  Syndicate,  Bok  Syndicate^  and  The 
Arena,  for  permission  to  gather  together  these  scoMered 
Autumn  leaves. 


I. 

ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 


The  Mohammedan  Sunday. 

The  stranger  entering  Constantinople  at  noon 
might  think  the  rushing  stream  of  life  on  Galata 
bridge  represents  a  people  of  industrious  habits 
and  tireless  energy.  In  reality  it  is  one  of  the 
idlest  of  cities,  and  repose  of  mind  and  body,  tak- 
ing kief  (i.  e.,  lazing)  is  the  Turk's  supreme  hap- 
piness. 

Time  has  no  value  to  the  Moslem.  Immov- 
able fatalism  makes  the  future,  whatever  it  be,  ac- 
ceptable, and  the  ambitions  and  industries  of 
restless  Christian  nations  are  unknown  to  the  de- 
scendants of  men  who  ravaged  the  earth  under 
Genghis  Khan  and  Tamerlane. 

Friday,  the  Mohammedan  Sunday,  is  the  most 
delightful  of  all  the  week.  It  is  an  interruption 
to  labor,  if  there  be  any,  because  then  the  Sultan 
makes  his  only  outing;  the  whole  population 
rouses  and  goes  to  see  the  one  sovereign  of 
Europe  who  can  trace  his  lineage  through  four 


6  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORUS. 

centuries,  an  unbroken  succession,  without  the 
scepter  once  decHning  to  the  distaff,  and  without 
the  accession  of  a  collateral  branch. 

He  is  the  thirty-first  ruler  of  the  house  of 
Othman,  reaching  back  to  Shiek  Ertogrul  of 
glorious  memory,  founder  of  the  Ottoman  dy- 
nasty, who  was  buried  at  Eske  Scheher,  1238. 

About  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  com- 
mander of  the  faithful  leaves  Yildiz — Palace  of 
the  Star — mounted  usually  on  a  milk-white 
Arabian,  which  he  manages  with  delicate  and 
skillful  hand.  He  wears  the  uniform  of  an  army 
officer,  without  ornament  except  a  slight  dress 
sword.  His  bearing  is  kingly,  his  face  thin  and 
colorless,  eyes  black  and  keen  as  a  falcon's;  in 
his  lofty  ease  there  is  a  mingling  of  fierceness  and 
gentleness,  as  becomes  the  descendant  of  the 
most  illustrious  warrior  of  Islam,  the  successful 
wooer  of  the  fair  Malkhatoon. 

If  the  old  Tartar  blood  is  dominant  in  Abdul 
Hamid  Second,  one  would  not  suspect  it  while 
he  bows  right  and  left,  as  though  by  life-long 
contact  with  different  races  he  had  caught  and 
united  in  himself  the  graces  of  them  all.  Seeing 
him  thus  we  readily  believe  that  the  wearer  of  the 
sword  of  Othman,  uncontrolled  master  of  60,- 
000,000,  has  so  kindly  a  nature  he  has  never 
signed  a  death  warrant.    His  manner  is  always 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN    SUNDAY.  7 

winsome  and  gracious,  in  the  throne-room  the 
perfection  of  that  subtle  attraction  conveyed  to 
our  minds  by  the  word  courtly — a  charm  far  be- 
yond the  reach  of  mere  personal  appearance. 

Some  of  the  royal  family  have  had  great 
beauty  inherited  from  Circassian  mothers.  An 
English  artist  who  painted  Abdul  Medjid,  father 
to  the  present  Sultan,  declared  he  had  never  seen 
so  fine  a  mouth;  it  was  a  perfect  cupid's  bow. 
Physically,  the  house  has  declined  since  Turkish 
corsairs  scoured  the  Mediterranean  countries  for 
women  worthy  the  narpe  of  Sultana,  and  stole 
high-born  Venetian  ladies  to  adorn  the  Imperial 
harem. 

There  must  be  no  umbrellas  opened  in  pres- 
ence of  the  shadow  of  God  upon  earth.  Time  was 
when  raising  a  parasol  in  front  of  majesty  would 
be  the  signal  and  mark  for  a  musket-shot  from 
a  sentinel.  This  peaceful  furling  of  parasols  is  a 
far-away  reminder  of  the  tyranny  of  Amurath 
Fourth  (1623),  who  opened  batteries  on  boats 
impeding  the  view  and  sent  all  on  board  to  the 
bottom. 

Those  were  the  days  of  the  sword  and  the  bow- 
string, when  sunrise  over  the  Bosphorus  revealed 
on  its  shores  corpses  of  victims  nightly  strangled; 
and  so  familiar  with  executions  were  the  abject 
councilors  of  the  Divan  that,  when  summoned  to 


8  ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 

appear  at  the  Sublime  Porte,  they  usually  made 
the  death  ablution  before  entering  the  presence 
of  the  despot.  He  it  was  who,  among  small 
murders,  beheaded  his  chief  musician  for  singing 
a  Persian  air,  and  decreed :  "Those  of  my  illus- 
trious ofifspring  who  ascend  the  throne  may  put 
their  brothers  to  death  in  order  to  secure  the 
peace  of  the  world." 

Shrill  and  clear  the  bugle  calls;  the  band  dis- 
courses wild,  barbaric  music  attuned  to  fighting 
and  victory,  which  must  have  been  inspired  when 
the  Padisha  himself  led  the  armies  and  made  it 
his  custom  to  pitch  his  tent  and  sleep  on  the  field 
of  battle. 

The  whole  ceremony  of  marching  to  the 
mosque  is  much  changed  since  the  Oriental  dress 
has  vanished.  The  flowing  robes  crusted  with 
precious  stones,  the  jeweled  turbans  and  cimeters 
dazzling  the  sight  are  now  to  be  seen  only  in 
museums  and  treasure  houses.  Anciently  the 
war  horse  of  the  king  of  a  hundred  kings  pranced 
on  carpets  soft  as  plush  spread  along  the  way 
from  Seraglio  Point  to  St.  Sophia,  to  be  taken  up 
and  then  distributed  among  the  crowd. 

Still  the  troops  are  of  martial  and  imposing 
carriage — picked  men  of  the  empire  from  the 
Soudan  to  Albania.  Well  do  they  guard  the 
banners  of  green — the  colors  of  the  Prophet  (he 


The  Su  J  fun  (ii):ii"  ^i^i  f^i-iivcr 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  9 

rests  in  glory !) — and  every  man  is  ready  at  every 
breath  to  do  gallant  service  or,  if  need  be,  to  die 
for  the  true  faith.  The  Islamite  who  deserts  his 
post  or  flies  before  his  foe  is  held  by  the  military 
code  deserving  of  death  in  this  world  and  of  hell- 
fire  in  the  next. 

Turkish  cavalry  has  long  been  admitted  the 
finest  in  Europe;  and  first  among  them  are  the 
Circassians,  body-guard  of  the  Sultan,  whom 
Russell  of  the  London  Times  called  the  most  pic- 
turesque scoundrels  in  the  world.  They  are 
bloodthirsty  and  treacherous,  renowned  for  reck- 
less bravery  and  matchless  beauty  of  the  pure 
Caucasian  type.  Even  among  the  meanest  of 
them  you  see  noble,  well-set  heads  of  finest  mold, 
testifying  to  unmixed  blood  of  the  most  perfect 
of  living  races. 

They  wear  curious  arms  and  silver  cartridge- 
pockets  at  their  breasts  in  memory  of  a  twenty- 
five  years'  struggle  against  Russia  under  their 
prophet-chief,  Schamyl,  when  their  power  was 
first  shattered  and  broken. 

The  Sultan  enters  the  mosque  with  one  Iman 
to  ofifer  the  prayer  none  other  is  entitled  to  utter. 
The  ranking  ofiftcers  of  the  army  and  navy  in 
full  uniform,  with  j'eweled  orders  and  decora- 
tions, wait  at  the  entrance.  The  stay  within  is 
short;  the  half  hour  soon  passes,  the  royal  sup- 

2 


lO  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

pliant  reappears,  remounts  the  fretting  desert- 
born  steed,  the  guards  close  round  him,  the  mul- 
titude cheer,  "Long  Live  the  Padisha,"  and  then 
the  immense  crowd  breaks  away  for  the  pleasant 
afternoon  on  the  banks  of  the  Bosphorus. 

Let  us  quit  this  overcrowded  Babylon  and 
seek  the  Valley  of  Sweet  Waters  of  Asia,  and, 
that  we  may  be  Oriental  as  possible,  let  us  not 
take  a  steamer,  but  step  into  a  caique,  a  vessel 
peculiar  to  the  Bosphorus  as  the  gondola  is  to 
Venice,  and  the  dahaibeah  is  to  the  Nile. 

The  Bosphorus  is  but  a  passage  way  for  the 
waters  of  the  Black  Sea  setting  in  slow  and  un- 
certain currents  for  the  Mediterranean.  It  has 
no  tide,  only  the  currents,  which,  for  cleansing 
and  purification,  are  better  than  a  tide.  Com- 
mercial intercourse  has  converted  it  into  a  canal, 
but  such  a  canal  as  Nature  alone  can  dig,  putting 
to  mock  ditches  like  that  Nero  attempted  across 
the  Corinthian  isthmus.  It  is  faintly  counter- 
parted  on  the  Hudson,  and,  if  accounts  be  true, 
is  in  some  respects  rivaled  by  channels  in  the 
Straits  of  Magellan.  The  chain  of  mountains 
through  which  the  Bosphorean  rift  was  worked 
is  high;  the  rift  itself  is  deep,  in  places  deep  as 
the  sea;  and  so  bold  is  the  step-off  from  the 
shores  that  the  greatest  ships  pass  within  a 
fathom  of  the  quays  with  which  they  are  for 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  II 

the  most  part  lined.  The  sight  of  a  boat  in  mo- 
tion is  always  a  pleasure,  and  the  larger  the  boat 
the  greater  the  pleasure.  Fancy  what  it  must  be 
to  watch  the  passage  at  full  speed  of  an  ocean 
going  steamer  so  close  that  you  see  the  eyes  of 
the  passengers,  and  hear  the  officers  on  the 
bridge  speaking  in  ordinary  tones. 

The  stream  is  of  irregular  width,  generally 
from  one-half  of  a  mile  to  a  mile,  and  it  goes  its 
way  in  a  serpentine  fashion,  leaving  immense 
bends  in  the  banks  opposite  corresponding  prom- 
ontories, from  which  springs  the  ceaseless  change 
of  landscape  that  constitutes  the  main  charm  of 
the  locality.  Traversing  it  is  like  witnessing  the 
unfolding  of  a  panorama.  Overhead  is  the  softest 
blue  sky,  humid  with  the  vapors  of  two  seas. 
Breathing  them,  you  afterwhile  come  to  taste 
their  salty  flavor.  Nowhere  is  there  such  variety 
in  boats.  You  never  weary  of  watching  them  go- 
ing and  coming  here  and  there,  in  and  out,  their 
sails  whitening  in  the  sun  and  darkening  in  the 
shade,  and  at  all  times,  whether  in  sun  or  shade, 
things  of  living  grace.  You  cannot  hang  a  ban- 
ner on  a  staff  but  it  will  drop  when  left  to  itself 
into  folds  and  figures  of  beauty;  sails  take  on  the 
same  charm.  You  should  see  what,  in  the  way 
of  vessels,  a  clear  day  can  bring  forth.  Yonder 
go  the  woodmen,  a  dozen  of  them,  racing  to 


12  ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 

make  the  market  first;  here,  hugging  the  shore 
to  escape  the  force  of  the  current,  the  rowers, 
brawny  fellows,  picturesque  in  their  very  rags, 
rising  to  take  reach  with  the  oars  and  falling  in 
the  pull  together,  come  fishermen  in  their  black 
boats,  modeled  like  ancient  Scandinavian  gal- 
leys. Observe  how  carefully  the  rude  fellows 
give  right  of  way  to  the  slender  caique  of  the 
Pacha,  whose  ten  rowers  are  in  livery,  and 
trained  to  perfect  form.  When  their  oars  drop 
the  frail  vessel  rises  as  if  to  leap  from  the  water. 
They  go  noiselessly  and  swift,  almost  like  swal- 
lows, yet  before  they  are  out  of  sight  another 
caique  even  more  beautiful  passes  you,  carpeted, 
carven,  gilt  and  painted,  and  driven  by  three 
oarsmen.  The  black  Aga  sitting  cross-legged 
behind  a  nest  of  parasols  dyed  in  the  most  bril- 
liant unmixed  colors  is  sufficient  warning  that 
the  passengers  are  ladies  of  rank.  You  can  take 
one  look  to  satisfy  yourselves  on  the  point — 
only  one,  for  the  Aga  carries  pistols,  and  it  is 
lawful  for  him  to  use  them.  At  such  times  it  is 
wonderful  how  much  one  can  take  in  with  the 
briefest  glance.  He  can  at  least  always  tell  if  it 
be  worth  while  to  venture  a  second  look. 

From  the  water,  turn  now  to  the  shore — it 
makes  no  difference  which  shore.  Your  eyes 
cannot  be  cast  to  a  point  where  there  is  not  a 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  13 

picture  to  fascinate  them.  Observe  first  that 
town  of  long  extent — a  city  in  fact  though  of  but 
one  row  of  houses.  The  owners  prefer  the  one 
row,  for  it  brings  their  town  down  to  the  water's 
edge;  still,  if  their  taste  were  otherwise,  they 
could,  not  help  themselves,  for  the  space  they  oc- 
cupy with  their  buildings  had  to  be  blasted  out 
of  the  solid  mountain.  Look  again,  I  say,  and 
study  the  effect  of  the  arrangement.  You  are 
reminded  at  once  of  Venice.  The  waves  wash 
the  marble  of  the  doors  from  which  the  owners 
can  step  into  their  boats;  and  then  fishing  was 
never  made  so  easy;  the  children  drop  their  lines 
out  of  the  windows,  and  catch  red  mullets  for 
breakfast.  The  painted  fronts  in  air  are  painted 
fronts  in  the  w^ater;  their  reflections  reach  to  an 
infinite  depth;  and  back  of  the  red-tiled  roofs  rise 
the  stony  faces  of  the  mountain  left  perpendicu- 
lar by  the  workmen  who  did  the  blasting;  in  one 
place,  they  present  the  appearance  of  a  wall  of 
dark  ivy  which  grows  there  with  wonderful 
vigor,  and  keeps  verdurous  all  the  year  round;  in 
another  place,  they  are  broken  with  terraces  that 
go  up  zig-zag  clear  to  the  summit,  bordered  on 
the  outer  edges  with  accacias,  and  oranges  and 
lemon  trees,  and  flowering  shrubs;  while  on  the 
extreme  summit,  to  get  the  benefit  of  the  back- 
ground of  sky,  the  great  rock  pines  stand  hold- 


14  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

ing  their  umbrella  tops  outspread  like  tireless 
servants  appointed  especially  to  shade  the  roses 
in  the  gardens  below  them.  On  the  terraces  you 
see  the  people  in  gay  garments,  mostly  women 
and  children,  seated  upon  their  rugs,  getting  the 
sweetness  of  the  breeze,  and  idly  watching  the 
going  and  coming  of  the  boats  and  boatmen. 
Sitting  there,  they  smoke  and  take  sherbet,  and 
eat  cakes  and  conserves,  and  loll  or  gossip,  offer- 
ing such  a  picture  of  dolce  far  niente  as  may  be 
seen  nowhere  else.  Of  still  evenings  their  voices 
drop  to  you,  and  on  looking  up  to  find  the  speak- 
ers, you  think  to  yourself  how  it  would  be  to  do 
nothing  as  they  do,  except  it  may  be  of  mornings 
to  watch  the  sun  lift  the  vapors  of  night  from  the 
green  sea-river  beneath  them  so  far,  revealing 
one  by  one  the  caiques  at  their  swallow-like 
play  between  Europe  and  Asia,  and  the  preten- 
tious ships,  which  were  belated  there  at  sundown 
last  evening,  their  sails  now  hanging  in  idle  wait- 
ing for  the  wind  which  is  to  blow  them  it  may  be 
to  Sebastapol  or  Odessa  or  the  other  way  to  the 
city  of  the  Sultans.  And  when,  as  is  not  seldom, 
the  rising  curtain  gives  to  sight  a  fleet  of  majestic 
steamers  flying  the  flags  of  all  the  commercial  na- 
tions, ah,  you  will  admit  that  the  Bosphorus  is 
the  perfectest  summering  place  this  side  of  Para- 


THE   MOrfAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  15 

disc.  Is  it  wonderful  that  the  Osmanlie  is  always 
ready  to  fight  for  it? 

Formerly  the  Sultan  spent  his  holidays  on  the 
water,  but  the  present  dispenser  of  crowns  to 
monarchs  leaves  Yildiz  only  to  seek  the  nearest 
mosque,  so  the  imperial  caique  is  rarely  seen, 
which  is  a  pity,  for  it  is  the  prettiest  thing  afloat 
— a  long,  slender  boat,  sharply  tapered  at  both 
ends,  painted  pure  white,  touched  with  pink  and 
gold,  and  graceful  as  a  lily  on  the  waters.  Its 
twenty-four  rowers  keep  perfect  time  together. 
They  are  clad  in  silk,  scarlet  and  embroideries. 
Draperies  of  foreign  fabric  and  glowing  color 
touch  the  ripples.  At  the  stern  is  a  gilded  pea- 
cock, and  the  airy  craft  skims  the  waves  like 
some  swift  bird  in  swimmmg  flight. 

A  generation  ago  there  were  80,000  caiques 
plying  up  and  down,  darting  in  every  direction 
lightly  as  butterflies.  Now  there  are  less  than 
half  that  number.  The  natives  call  them  swal- 
low boats,  and  the  motion  is  so  restful  to  the  two 
passengers  (the  dear  reader  and  writer),  we 
hardly  realize  the  hard  work  required  among  the 
varying  currents  till  we  see  sweat  pour  down 
the  faces  of  our  oarsmen  and  the  muscles  of  their 
bare  arms  knot  like  cords. 

Thin  planks  of  tulip  and  beechwood  appear 
too  frail  to  oppose  any  force,  and  we  shiver  when 


l6  ALONG  THE  BOSPllORUS. 

heavy  steamers  pass.  The  aerial  fabric  rides  the 
tiny  waves,  and  its  sharp  points  ofifer  small  re- 
sistance to  the  sweep  of  the  ever-moving  waters. 
The  fragile  things  have  no  ballast  but  the  occu- 
pants, and  we  must  sit  perfectly  still  or  upset 
while  we  head  toward  the  Asian  shore. 

Now  the  stream  is  two  miles  wide.  Look  back 
at  Seraglio  Point,  the  scene  of  imperial  wars  and 
loves,  the  residence  of  masters  of  Byzantium  a 
thousand  years  before  the  Turks  crossed  into 
Europe.  In  the  tideless  land-locked  harbor  we 
call  the  Golden  Horn,  ironclads  bought  in  Eng- 
land are  idly  lying.  Beyond  them  westward,  vast 
and  dark,  is  the  leaden  roof  of  St.  Sophia,  the 
temple  where  forty  generations  had  worshiped 
before  Michael  Angelo  beheld  against  the  sky  of 
Italy  the  peerless  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Every  sort  of  boat  that  goes  by  oar,  and  every- 
thing that  can  sail,  and  everything  that  goes  by 
steam,  passes  us.  Many  vessels  carrying  mer- 
chandise are  built  like  the  galley  of  Jason,  which 
sailed  this  way,  bound  for  Colchis,  in  the  pre- 
historic, mythic  period, and  some  touch  for  lading 
at  a  wharf  that  yet  bears  his  name.  The  water 
is  blue  as  though  colored  with  indigo,  clear  as 
crystal,  and  sparkles  fall  off  the  oars  like  pearly 
beads.  Some  caiques  are  gilt,  richly  carved  and 
inlaid  with  precious  woods.    Perhaps  the  rowers 


Palais  dc  Dolmabaatche, 


Paok  28. 


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m^SffS^^^^ 

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"-^"""""iir" 

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Mpni/MBlKBi 

f^MfSr^ 

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1 

f 

THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  I? 

are  named  Aristides  and  Themistocles,  showing 
they  have  not  forgotten  the  glory  that  was 
Greece,  or  may  be  there  is  an  armed  attendant  in 
gorgeous  vestments,  a  native  of  Montenegro — 
the  m.ountain  eyrie  which  has  defied  the  Sultan 
and  all  his  hosts  four  hundred  years. 

Here  comes  the  splendid  caique  of  an  Eastern 
Ambassador,  curtained  with  shawls  of  finest 
fabric  and  warm  and  changeful  hues.  Madame 
I'Ambassadrice,  robed  with  soft  raiment  in- 
wTought  with  gold,  reclines  in  quietude  among 
her  silky  pillows,  placid  and  content  as  the 
cushat  in  her  nest;  beside  her  a  little  daughter. 
The  child  has  wonderful  dark  eyes,  and  looks 
about  in  eager  delight.  Attheageof  fourteen  she 
will  be  veiled  and  guarded.  On  her  tiny  hand  is 
a  flaming  jewel  so  precious  we  may  well  believe 
the  legend  that,  when  wrested  from  a  wandering 
tribe,  only  one  man  knew  in  which  of  twelve 
boxes  it  was  kept,  or  on  which  of  one  hundred 
camels  it  was  carried  in  the  march. 

The  mother  wears  a  veil  of  flowered  gauze 
through  which  we  cannot  see  her  features,  but 
elsewhere  I  have  been  allowed  to  behold  the  full 
moon  of  full  moons  in  her  unveiled  loveliness. 
They  say  she  is  of  an  unconquered  people  in 
some  remote  corner  of  a  sterile  mountain  region. 
I  do  not  know;  but  I  do  know  that  from  the  be- 


l8  ^  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

ginning,  though  beauty  abide  in  a  wilderness, 
the  king's  son  will  make  a  path  to  her  hiding 
place  and  fit  the  magic  slipper  to  her  foot. 

The  Sultana  Valide  (Sultan  mother)  is  abroad 
to-day,  and  no  one  can  guess  how  many  oda- 
lisques from  the  Seraglio.  It  is  said  the  Padisha 
has  more  wives  than  David,  but  not  so  many  as 
Solomon.    Who  knows  may  tell. 

It  is  early  spring;  the  judas  trees  (our  redbud) 
are  in  bloom,  tinting  the  atmosphere  pink  like 
peach  bloom,  and  the  sheltered  slopes  on  both 
sides  of  the  Bosphorus-are  redolent  of  Damascus 
roses.  Thousands  of  pigeons  flutter  in  the  mel- 
ancholy cypress  groves  which  mark  the  home  of 
the  absent.  Along  the  terraced  hills  are  strings 
of  palaces  with  steps  leading  to  the  water,  cool 
pavilions,  costly  as  gems,  gushing  fountains, 
fairy  villas  of  cedar  and  stone,  with  terraces  light 
as  lace,  summer  houses,  picture-like  shapes  float- 
ing up  out  of  the  depths  and  resting  on  air.  Oh, 
how  its  beauty  comes  back  to  me  now ! 

The  Cheregan  is  largest  of  the  many  palaces 
of  the  Sultan;  a  memorial  towering  above  the 
tomb  of  a  canonized  dervish.  It  is  built  nobly 
of  marble,  snowy  white,  with  balustrades  and 
columns  graceful  and  elegant.  A  row  of  cor- 
morants sits  on  the  roof,  moveless,  like  a  crest- 
ing; bright- winged  birds  flit  through  the  shrub- 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  19 

bery,  and  doves  coo  and  flutter  tamely  about  the 
windows.  The  gates  are  freshly  gilded,  and, 
though  delicate  as  filigree,  are  strong  and  well 
locked.  As  we  float  along  you  may  hear  hints 
(not  from  me,  dear  reader)  of  a  high-born  pris- 
oner held  in  regal  state  within ;  and  whispers  that 
it  is  the  abode  of  a  remnant  of  an  aged  harem  en- 
tailed for  maintenance  on  the  present  Sultan 
since  the  death  of  his  father.  Having  once  be- 
longed to  royalty,  the  wives  must  live  in  per- 
petual widowhood,  monuments  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead-and-gone  father  of  the  King 
of  Kings  of  the  world.  Let  us  not  inquire  too 
closely;  questioning  is  impertinent. 

Fishermen  cast  their  nets  froma  kind  of  cage 
upheld  on  beams  of  wood  buoyed  on  gourds  or 
corks.  In  wailing  cadence  and  swell  they  an- 
swer each  other  across  wide  spaces,  sometimes 
with  broken  time  and  long  intervals;  weird 
notes,  making  strange  effects  on  ear  and  fancy — 
a  vague  reminder  of  the  ancient  Greek  chorus; 
a  strain  well  calculated  to  raise  the  ghosts  of 
heroes  who  sailed  the  Propontis  in  the  dateless 
years  before  the  Odyssey  was  written. 

Look  at  the  White  Castle,  founded  no  one 
knows  when  or  by  whom — a  grim  fortress  fa- 
mous in  war,  whose  tragedies  many  a  minstrel 
has  harped  and  many  a  troubadour  sung  to  the 


20  ALONG   THE   BOSPHORUS. 

thrumming  of  his  two-stringed  guitar.  In  its 
horrid  dungeons  Christian  prisoners  have  lan- 
guished, and  through  its  narrow  windows  the 
captive  has  stretched  his  skinny  hands,  praying 
for  help,  and  has  worn  away  slow  years,  till  his 
poor  heart  broke,  waiting  for  the  ransom  that 
might  never  be  paid. 

On  a  ruinous  tower  the  silent  stork  lays  her 
eggs  and  broods  her  young — a  sacred  bird, 
which  makes  every  winter  the  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca;  and  her  nest,  though  left  empty  on  a 
chimney,  secures  the  owner  of  the  house  against 
fire  and  pestilence. 

Spectral  forms  hover  about  these  hoary  tur- 
rets, and  mysterious  voices  blend  with  the  sound- 
ing sea  as  deep  calleth  unto  deep.  Here  Per- 
sian armies  in  barbaric  pomp  marched  over  their 
pontoon  bridge  to  invade  Europe;  here  Crusad- 
ers crossed  into  Asia,  and  here,  type  of  our 
higher  civilization,  the  underlying  cable  joins  the 
two  continents,  making  the  shortest  route  to 
India. 

One  poetic  tradition  softens  the  rugged  front 
of  the  battlemented  walls  of  the  White  Castle. 
It  is  of  the  son  of  Amurath,  who  first  planted 
the  Crescent  on  St.  Sophia,  and  over  the  city  of 
the  Holy  Trinity  proclaimed  the  oneness  of  God. 
At  the  White  Castle  he  met  by  accident  and 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  21 

loved  at  once,  and  with  his  whole  heart,  a  Grecian 
princess  of  transcendent  loveliness,  a  near  kins- 
woman of  the  Emperor  Constantine.  When  the 
city  of  Constantinople  fell  she  was  taken  prisoner 
and  kept  in  honor  and  safety  till  order  was  re- 
stored; then  the  Conqueror,  Mohammed  Sec- 
ond, sent  for  the  fascinating  Giaour,  and  thus 
runs  the  ancient  chronicle :  "He  took  in  her  Per- 
fections such  delight  and  contentment,  as  that  in 
short  time  he  had  changed  state  with  her,  she 
being  become  the  Mistress  and  Commander  of 
him  so  great  a  Conqueror;  and  he  in  nothing 
more  delighted  than  in  doing  her  the  greatest 
Honor  and  Service  he  could.  All  the  day  he 
spent  with  her  in  discourse;  all  time  spent  in  her 
company  seemed  to  him  short,  and  without  her 
nothing  pleased;  his  fierce  Nature  was  now  by 
her  well  tamed,  and  his  wonted  care  of  Arms 
quite  neglected.  Mars  slept  in  Venus'  lap,  and 
now  the  Soldiers  might  go  play." 

A  reedy  little  stream  called  Sweet  Waters  of 
Asia  empties  into  the  Bosphorus;  its  margin  is 
bordered  with  sycamores,  chestnut,  and  oak 
trees,  and  overlooked  by  the  exquisite  kiosk  of 
the  mother  of  Sultan  Abdul  Medjid — a  gentle, 
smiHng  landscape  in  a  sunny  atmosphere  of 
peace.  Yet  it  is  never  safe  to  go  without  shawls, 
for  the  land   of  citron  and  vine  has  its   cold 


22  ALONG   THE   BOSPHORUS. 

shoulder,  and,  like  a  spoiled  favorite,  sometimes 
suddenly  turns  it  on  her  lovers. 

The  sexes  do  not  mingle  in  picnic.  Carpets 
are  spread  on  the  grass,  and  women  and  chil- 
dren, in  dresses  gaudy  as  tulip  beds,  eat  sweets 
and  loll  on  cushions  of  down,  in  simple  enjoy- 
ment of  earth,  sea,  and  sky.  The  ladies  have 
their  black  guardsman,  called  bolt  of  the  door, 
keeper  of  the  lilies;  watchman  of  the  hyacinths, 
etc.  The  whip  of  hippopotamus  hide  in  his  hand 
is  the  sign  of  his  office,  and  its  lash  is  ready  for 
him  who  gazes  too  curiously  at  the  Paradise 
eyes,  or  tries  to  peer  under  the  misty  white  veils. 

Sellers  of  melons,  fruit,  cakes,  move  about 
crying  their  wares,  and  slaves  are  in  waiting  who 
are  such  only  in  name  They  are  part  of  the 
household,  free  at  the  end  of  seven  years  and 
eligible  to  any  position.  More  than  half  the 
marriages  in  Turkey  are  with  slaves. 

The  men,  who  are  comparatively  few,  smoke, 
drowse,  and  take  their  pleasure  solemnly.  A 
tiny  cup  of  cofifee,  sipped  drop  by  drop,  will 
last  through  hours.  Here  and  there  a  solitary 
under  the  sad  cypresses  ponders  the  deep  mys- 
teries, murmurs  the  ninety-nine  beautiful  names 
of  Allah,  and  dreams  of  the  rose-door  of  Para- 
dise that  shuts  in  the  golden  pleasure  fields  kept 
for  the  Faithful. 


THE   MOHAMMEDAN   SUNDAY.  23 

In  some  out-of-the-way  place,  under  a  plane- 
tree,  may  be  seen  a  group,  reverend  as  patriarchs, 
enjoying  the  story-teller.  One  tale  consumes 
the  whole  day,  the  listeners  sitting  motionless  in 
rapt  attention.  Orientals  revel  in  accounts  of 
buried  treasure,  and  the  poorer  the  reciter  the 
richer  the  mine,  the  deeper  the  enchanted  cavern 
where  jars  of  inestimable  jewels  and  bags  of  gold 
are  locked  under  the  spell  of  wizard  or  evil  genii. 
Sindbad,  Aladdin,  the  never-ending  Arabian 
Night  stories  are  familiar  and  charming  to  them. 

One  of  the  central  figures  in  their  legends  is 
Solomon,  wisest  of  prophets,  who  was  learned 
in  the  language  of  beasts  and  birds,  and  heard 
secrets  whenever  he  walked  in  his  gardens  of 
spices.  He  had  three  talismans:  first,  a  sig- 
net-ring, at  whose  touch  thrones  crumbled  and 
mighty  spirits  rose  from  the  dead;  on  this  stone 
was  engraven  the  Nameless  Name.  The  second, 
less  potent,  was  a  magic  glass  that  revealed  the 
movements  of  his  enemies,  and  showed  the  laws 
of  all  things;  and  the  third  was  the  east-wind, 
which  was  the  great  king's  horse. 

An  unskilled  musician,  with  a  reed,  pipes  a 
desert  strain  to  the  lean,  swart  Bedouin;  and  if 
you  have  the  gift  of  tongues  you  may  hear  of 
many  sorts  of  treasures — of  a  radiant  glance 
which  throws  the  sun  and  moon  into  shade — 


M  ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 

when  Leila  lifts  her  white  eyelids  the  stars  grow 
pale;  of  flower-soft  lips  and  voices  sweeter  than 
the  bulbul's;  and  of  a  gallant  steed;  the  wind 
lag-ged  after  him,  and  between  his  hoofs  his  mas- 
ter slept  as  in  a  safe  tent. 

The  literature  of  the  Turk  is  scant,  and  his 
poetry  is  borrowed  mainly  from  the  Arabic. 
Come  near  and  you  hear  something  like  this 
little  story  from  the  Persian.  I  have  seen  it  ren- 
dered into  verse,  but  the  literal  translation  gives 
best  the  fine  essence  of  the  original : 

"One  knocked  at  the  Beloved's  door,  and  a 
voice  asked  from  within,  *Who  is  there?'  and  he 
answered,  *It  is  I.'  Then  the  voice  said,  'This 
house  will  not  hold  thee  and  me;'  and  the  door 
was  not  opened.  Then  went  the  lover  out  into 
the  Desert,  where  there  is  nothing  but  Allah,  and 
fasted  and  prayed  in  solitude,  and  after  a  year  he 
returned  and  knocked  again  at  the  door;  and 
again  the  voice  asked,  'Who  is  there?'  and  he 
said,  *It  is  thyself,'  and  the  door  was  opened  to 
him.*' 

Here  is  a  favorite  chant  given  with  droning 
accompaniment  on  the  tambours : 

"Clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 

Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrimwise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 


THE  MOHAMMEDAN  SUNDAY.  2$ 

"Oh,  not  for  them  need  angels  pray! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light; 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  nestle  in  his  heart  at  night." 

And  this  is  a  part  of  the 

Message  from  under  the  Cypress    Tree  in  the 
Garden  Green. 

*T  had  gold  robes,  and  greatness,  and  sweetness, 
I  was  queen  of  the  land. 

In  my  Palace  shone  pride  of  completeness; 
On  my  lips  sate  command. 

But  the  heart  of  my  Lord  was  my  glory, 
Not  the  crown  on  my  brows. 

And  my  garden  is  green  with  Love's  story, 
And  my  Tomb  is  Love's  house." 

The  tranquil  enjoyment  lasts  till  twilight.  All 
are  sober,  none  noisy;  laughing  children  now 
and  then  clap  hands  and  make  a  little  stir,  but  if 
there  is  anything  like  vivacity,  be  sure  it  is  in  a 
Greek  or  Armenian.  There  is  no  color  line, 
and  an  Ethiop  girl  in  tinseled  slippers  may  sing 
to  an  enraptured  audience  the  "Frantic  Lay  of 
the  Night-black  Lover,"  and  with  mad  gesture 
shout,  rather  than  hymn,  the  praises  of  love  and 
wine. 

3 


26  ALONG  THE  BOSPttCRUS. 

Through  the  sunset  sky  we  have  a  vanishing 
glimpse  of  the  invisible  and  heavenly.  Ten  thou- 
sand voices  thrill  the  air  calling  to  prayer  from 
ten  thousand  minarets.  Then  is  the  witching 
hour.  As  darkness  deepens  the  flood  calms;  the 
unresting  birds — a  species  of  halcyon — hush 
their  screams,  and,  in  wing-worn  flocks,  seek 
their  nests  at  the  entrance  of  the  Black  Sea;  a 
quickening  breeze  fans  the  cheek;  voices  of 
serenaders,  not  Moslem,  are  wafted  through  the 
perfumed  dusk;  innumerable  wavelets,  faint 
pulsations  of  the  sea,  unite  in  lulling  monotone. 
Beneath  yon  latticed  balcony  a  flower  drops  on  a 
dark  upturned  face.  Romeo  is  breathing  the 
eternal  tale  of  which  the  world  never  tires,  be- 
gun in  Eden,  new  every  morning  and  fresh  every 
evening. 

The  words,  in  Greek  or  Italian,  run  on  the 
same  tender  theme — the  bliss  of  meeting,  the 
pain  of  parting.  The  lovelorn  watcher  under  the 
sentinel  stars  calls  the  bright  powers  of  Heaven 
to  hear  his  lament  and  witness  his  woe :  "I  weep 
not  for  the  ship,  I  weep  not  for  the  sails,  but  I 
weep  for  the  fair  one,  the  lily-bud  who  is  sailing 
far  away." 

In  sweetness  and  grace  our  festal  day  is  dying. 
Of  the  balmy  eve  softly  following,  I  hardly  trust 
myself  to  speak.     Nine  months  in  the  year  the 


FEAST  OF   BAIRAM.  27 

pleasure-lover  may  find  it  such  as  I  have  tried  to 
describe — the  indescribable.  With  a  feeling  of 
unreality  we  float  between  blue  and  blue,  past 
gardens  blossoming  with  jasmine,  heliotrope, 
lavender,  groves  of  pine  with  tall  dark  crowns, 
and  hearken  to  the  secrets  in  the  nightingale's 
song.  Of  the  myriad  melodies  of  Nature  it  is  the 
saddest,  and,  listening  to  the  wondrous  plaint, 
we  cannot  doubt  that  she  is  telling  to  her  beloved 
rose  how  her  breast  is  pierced  with  cruel  thorns. 
Like  an  uplifted  mirage  looming  on  high  rise 
the  towers  and  domes  of  old  Stamboul;  beyond 
them  in  a  glad  radiance,  changeful  as  fire-opal, 
drift  the  Happy  Isles  of  the  Marmora.  Night 
and  day,  truth  and  fable,  are  blent  in  absolute 
harmony,  a  perfect  chord.  It  is  all  a  witchery, 
a  spell  fleeting  as  some  asolian  strain  enchanting 
us  in  sleep;  it  haunts  our  waking,  but  is  doomed 
to  remain  forever  unsung,  and  now  is  so  dim 
and  distant  I  sometimes  wonder  which  was 
dream  and  which  reality. 


Feast  of  Bairam. 

This  is  the  holiest  of  Mohammedan  festivals 
because  it  is  the  day  the  pilgrims  perform  the  rite 
of  sacrifice  at  Mecca.    It  begins  when  the  priests 


28  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

on  Mount  Olympus  (near  Broussa,  the  ancient 
capital  of  Turkey)  first  see  the  new  moon  in  the 
month  of  Shewal  (August).  Messengers  are 
dispatched,  signals  given,  and  the  slaying  of 
sheep  and  other  ceremonials  remind  one  of  the 
Feast  of  the  Passover.  Doubtless  a  large  part  of 
it  has  come  down  from  the  Jews.  Mohammed 
commands  only  one  fast  day,  but  his  reckoning 
was  lost,  and  to  make  sure  of  the  right  one,  de- 
vout Moslems  keep  the  whole  month  of 
Ramazah. 

Thirty  days  from  sunrise  to  sunset  nearly  one- 
fourth  of  the  human  race  neither  eat  bread  nor 
touch  water,  and  pray  with  face  toward  Mecca, 
the  holy  city  of  the  Prophet,  five  times  a  day. 
There  is  something  heroic  and  terrible  in  this 
devotion  to  a  religion  for  which  believers  are,  at 
all  times,  ready  to  do  and  die.  After  the  thirty 
days  of  self-denial  come  three  days  of  feasting 
and  revel. 

Then  the  Sultan  receives  the  homage  of  his 
high  officials.  Dohna  Batche  is  finest  of  the  Im- 
perial palaces  standing  on  the  water's  edge  of  the 
Bosphorus,  and  in  the  throne  room,  that  easily 
holds  five  thousand  persons,  the  august  cere- 
mony is  held,  beginning  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  August  3d,  1891,  marks  the  twelve 
hundred  and  eleventh  year  of  Islamism.     The 


Porte  du  Palais  de  Dolmabagtche. 

Page  29. 


FEAST   OF   BAIRAM.  29 

guns  of  the  forts  thunder,  the  royal  bands  play, 
and  in  the  state  carriage,  gilded  and  lined  with 
crimson  velvet,  the  Sultan  rides  from  Yildiz 
kiosk  to  the  palace.  The  way  is  lined  with  sol- 
diers, crowds  are  on  the  walks,  all  eager,  ex- 
pectant, well-bred.  Where  are  the  poor,  the  un- 
happy, the  dissatisfied?  Not  here — not  in  sight 
to-day.  It  is  the  one  morning  of  the  year  when 
the  ladies  of  the  Seraglio  may  appear  in  proces- 
sion; they  are  closely  veiled,  and  their  beautiful 
children  crowd  the  carriage  windows.  One  more 
is  added  to  the  harem,  in  this  high  day;  the  an- 
nual new  wife  presented  to  the  Sultan  by  his 
mother,  who  selects  the  girl  fair  enough  to  adorn 
palace  rooms. 

The  Caliph  enters  the  lofty  portal  of  the  pal- 
ace and  takes  his  seat  on  the  throne,  a  small  gold 
and  crimson  sofa  without  canopy,  a  like  carpet 
is  spread  in  front.  The  two  princes,  handsome 
boys  of  ten  and  twelve  years,  stand  a  little  way 
off,  each  on  his  own  rug. 

Fastened  to  the  arms  of  the  throne  is  a  long 
scarf  of  cloth  of  gold,  with  fringed  ends;  this 
represents  the  hem  of  the  Padisha's  garment. 
It  is  upheld  by  Osman  Pasha,  head  of  the  army, 
hero  of  Plevna,  and  to  kiss  it,  and  touch  it  to  the 
forehead,  is  the  sign  of  loyalty.  Anciently  the 
ceremony  was  prettier,  but  one  cannot,  with  any 


30  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

grace,  kiss  the  skirt  of  a  modern  French  coat; 
only  flowing  robes  can  endure  that  obeisance. 

The  generals  of  the  army  and  officers  of  the 
household  in  glittering  uniforms,  with  flashing 
decorations  and  orders,  come  in.  Following 
them  are  the  holy  men  in  various  colored  uni- 
forms. There  is  a  short  prayer,  then  they  march 
up  in  perfect  order,  one  by  one,  salute  the  king 
of  a  hundred  kings,  kiss  the  sajcred  symbol  and 
back  down  the  room,  exquisite  precision  in 
every  movement.  As  a  line  files  up  another  at 
the  same  instant  moves  away,  taking  position 
against  the  sides  of  the  room  where  five  regi- 
ments could  be  manceuvered. 

The  Sultan  is  both  Pope  and  Emperor;  below 
him  all  men  are  slaves,  which  accounts  for  the 
jet-black  officials  on  an  equal  rank  (the  equality 
of  slavery)  with  white  men.  A  Nubian  has  no 
trouble.  He  may  be  Grand  Vizier,  chief  counsel- 
lor, anything;  his  imperial  master  in  turn  styles 
himself  the  slave  of  God.  All  wear  the  red  fez, 
the  Sultan's  like  the  rest,  and  among  the  uni- 
forms of  embroidery,  gold,  badges,  medals,  he 
was  plainest,  wearing  only  one  superb  diamond 
star  and  a  modest  sword.  I  suppose  it  was  the 
sacred  one  of  Othman,  the  Bone  Breaker,  with 
which  he  used  to  split  a  man  at  one  blow.  The 
proud   Arabian  boast,   "our  turbans    are    our 


FEAST  OF   BAIRAM.  31 

crowns,  swords  are  our  scepters,"  still  holds 
good — at  least  in  appearance.  I  regret  that  the 
Dispenser  of  Crowns,  whose  throne  is  the  refuge 
of  the  world,  whom  the  sun  salutes  before  he 
rises,  does  not  appear  in  the  radiant  costumes  of 
earlier  times,  wearing  one  of  the  tremendous 
aigrettes  hung  up  in  the  treasury.  I  could  think 
only  of  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  on  his  lion- 
guarded  throne,  every  man  before  him  bringing 
his  present  in  token  of  allegiance. 

Twice  during  the  pageant  there  is  silent 
prayer,  all  hands  uplifted,  and  at  intervals  the 
shout  like  a  war  cry,  "Long  live  the  Padisha." 
When  the  priesthood  appeared  the  Sultan  stood; 
they  marched  past  in  wonderful  robes,  gray, 
purple,  white,  and  turbans  green,  showing  they 
had  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  Here  the 
obeisances  were  equal,  and  reverence  is  what 
softens,  elevates,  refinesi  the  heart.  There  is  so 
little  left  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic  that  it 
seemed  good  and  very  good  to  have  this  strong 
faith  and  earnest  expression. 

Two  hours — wearisome  they  must  have  been 
— the  coming  and  going  lasted,  and  all  the  while 
the  band  played.  There  is  a  wild  exultant  ring- 
in  Turkish  music,  suggestive  of  battle  and  con- 
quest, and  it  is  better  out  doors  than  in.  A  short 
recess  is  given  to  tea,  cake  and  syrup  in  an  ad- 


32  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

joining  room.  No  wine  nor  an}^  strong  drink  is 
offered.  I  saw  but  two  drunken  men  in  the 
East,  both  so-called  Christians.  At  the  state 
dinners  wines  are  provided,  but  the  Sultan's 
glass  is  always  upside  down. 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  about  the  effete 
creatures  of  the  tottering  Empire.  Nowhere 
have  I  seen  such  large  men  and  such  strength  as 
among  the  Turks.  The  English  officers  com- 
manding them  say  there  are  no  other  such  sol- 
diers for  obedience  and  endurance.  French  regi- 
ments look  like  boys,  cadets,  compared  with 
these  giants.  Arm  them  with  the  best  guns,  add 
the  unchanging  belief,  deep  as  their  heart's 
blood,  that  death  in  battle  is  the  passport  to 
Paradise,  and  you  have  an  army  heroic  and  un- 
daunted. 

To  return  to  the  most  splendid  spectacle  I  ever 
beheld.  Much  fine  gold  was  there,  but  it  is  said 
there  is  a  lamentable  falling  off  these  latter  days. 
The  brilliant  equipment  of  the  Janizareis  has  dis- 
appeared, and  since  last  year  the  Circassian  guard 
has  been  dismissed.  Their  pale  blue  and  gold 
vestments  were  well  suited  to  the  wearers  come 
of  a  race  famed  from  the  beginning  for  beauty; 
handsome  and  fearless  as  leopards,  they  are  as 
tameless,  too.    The  Albanians,  in  the  most  pic- 


FEAST  OF  BAIRAM.  33 

turesque  of  costumes,  have  vanished,  yet  much 
remains  that  is  dazzUng  to  Western  eyes. 

Formerly  the  galleries  were  filled  with  spec- 
tators, but  the  Porte  grows  more  and  more  dis- 
trustful and  jealous,  and  that  day  I  am  trying  to 
describe,  there  were  present  only  the  four  Am- 
bassadors and  their  wives,  our  two  selves,  three 
Jews  and  Jewesses,  wives  of  those  who  fill  the 
imperial  coffers.  Well  does  the  representation 
illustrate  the  ancient  proverb,  learning  for  the 
Frank,  money  for  the  Jew,  pomp  for  the  Os- 
manli.  After  the  parade  we  were  presented  to 
the  Sultan  in  a  small  ante-room.  He  spake 
courtly  words  to  each  one,  in  the  grave,  smooth, 
patient  manner  of  the  true  Oriental.  Very  tired 
Abdul  Hamid  must  have  been  that  day,  the  more 
wearied  because  of  distracting  questions  and  be- 
cause Egypt  is  written  on  his  heart. 

At  night  the  mosques  were  illumined,  and  the 
tall  slender  minarets  had  rings  of  lamps  en- 
circling them,  showing  in  the  darkness  like  glit- 
tering crowns  let  down  from  Heaven,  suspended 
in  midair.  The  Bosphorus  reflected  trembling 
ribbons  of  flame  from  the  palaces  on  its  shores, 
guns  fired,  amid  the  feasting  and  rejoicing;  but 
all  was  in  decorous  fashion.  You  may  drive 
through  old  Stamboul,  where  beats  the  heart 
and  plots  the  brain  of  Islam,  in  the  midst  of  the 


34  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

gala,  and  see  not  one  unseemly  sight,  nor  hear 
a  loud  word.  The  better  the  Moslem  the  better 
the  man,  say  those  who  know  them.  It  is  death 
to  embrace  the  faith  of  the  gentle  Nazarene,  and 
the  teachings  of  our  missionaries  have  no  more 
effect  on  Mohammed's  followers  than  the  winds 
of  the  desert  have  on  Mount  Sinai. 

If,  as  wise  sophomores  insist,  these  be  the  last 
days  of  the  crumbling  Ottoman  Empire,  I  must 
call  the  expiring  flicker  a  brilliant  upspringing 
flash.  The  sick  man  has  outlived  his  physicians; 
and  his  strong  neighbors,  ready  to  see  him  die, 
are  still  waiting  for  the  funeral  and  the  division 
of  his  estate. 

Buying  a  Dog. 

"Constantinople,  Turkey,     Feb.  14,  1885. 

"My  Dear  Henry: — The  Sultan  is  driven  by 
business  every  hour  of  the  day  and  a  great  part  of 
the  night  *  *  *  Harassed  as  he  is  it  is  a 
question  in  my  mind  if  the  sword  of  Othman, 
hanging  on  the  walls  of  the  mosque  at  Eyoub, 
would  be  worth  the  wearing.  It  brings  the  sov- 
ereign no  peace,  no  rest;  but  that  is  not  what 
I  want  to  tell  about. 

"It  is  curious  that  I  forgot  to  say  anything  of 
the  dog  which  His  Majesty  asked  me  to  get  for 
him.    Now  to  the  report : 


BUYING  A  DOG.  35 

"I  Spent  four  days  in  London  doiilg  nothing 
but  looking  at  dogs.  As  you  know,  it  is  the 
greatest  dog  market  in  the  world,  just  as  Eng- 
land is  the  greatest  horse,  sheep  and  cattle  mar- 
ket— I  mean,  of  course,  for  specialties  in  the  way 
of  blooded  stock.  I'd  like  to  know  what  kind  of 
a  dog  I  did  not  see  in  those  four  days.  The  deal- 
ers brought  to  the  Langham  every  species  I  had 
ever  heard  of,  and  many  more  too.  The  speci- 
mens ranged  from  a  King  Charles  spaniel,  so 
small  you  could  easily  put  him  in  your  overcoat 
pocket,  up  to  a  boar-hound,  big  as  a  year-old 
burro. 

"The  prices  asked  were  simply  amazing — and 
in  most  instances  they  were  the  actual  market 
prices,  running  as  high  as  five  hundred  guineas, 
or  three  thousand  dollars.  The  dog  I  sought  was 
for  no  ordinary  purpose;  it  was  to  take  care  of 
my  royal  friend,  and  to  be  his  intimate,  his  guard- 
ian, his  sentinel,  his  bodyguard.  Consequently 
it  must  have  the  qualities  of  strength,  faithful- 
ness, good  nature  and  courage.  My  first  idea 
was  St.  Bernard.  I  found  this  species  will  not  do 
for  the  climate  of  Constantinople;  their  long  hair 
is  against  them;  and  when  I  came  to  see  a  pure 
blood,  he  was  not  so  fine  looking  as  I  had  im- 
agined. 

"I  then  thought  to  buy  a  boar-hound,  such  as 


36  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

Prince  Bismarck  keeps  to  accompany  him  in  his 
constitutionals,  and  is  always  photographed  with 
him.    It  is  an  immense  brute,  in  fact. 

"When  I  examined  one  I  shrank  away;  his 
face  was  treacherous  and  full  of  malice.  He  did 
not  seem  so  much  a  dog  as  a  dangerous  beast  of 
prey.  I  knew  by  my  own  feeling  that  the  Sultan 
would  be  afraid  of  him.  Then  I  examined  the 
stag  hounds,  being  started  in  that  direction  by 
recollection  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  friend  and  boon 
companion,  Maida.  They  did  not  suit  at  all. 
They  are  merely  hunting  dogs,  and  not  by  any 
means  handsome.  They  would  not  do  for  the 
beauty-lover  of  the  East;  so  I  gave  them  the 
go-by. 

"Finally,  at  the  suggestion  of  a  friend  who 
has  attended  the  bench  shows  of  the  city  for 
a  couple  of  years  past,  I  sent  for  English  mas- 
tiffs. The  first  one  brought  me  was  about  two 
years  old,  and  he  had  the  recommendation  of 
having  taken  the  first  prize  for  the  United  King- 
dom; and  I  must  say  he  was  the  most  magnifi- 
cent creature  of  his  kind  I  have  ever  seen.  I 
wanted  him  at  sight;  but,  how  much?  I  asked. 
Only  five  hundred  guineas !  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
ordered  him  off. 

"The  dealer  then  said  he  had  one  of  his  sons, 
perhaps  eight  months  old,  which  he  would  sell 


General  Wallace. 

Page  37. 


BUYING  A  DOG.  37 

for  a  much  less  sum.  I  had  the  pup  brought, 
and  closed  the  bargain  at  once.  A  finer  dog  I 
never  saw.  He  has  a  head  Hke  a  lion's,  a  body 
to  correspond,  is  quite  thirty-six  inches  high 
already,  and  measures,  from  point  of  tail  to  muz- 
zle, over  six  feet.  His  color  is  exactly  that  of  a 
lioness.  His  face  below  the  eyes  is  black  as  ink, 
so  is  his  mouth.  A  crowd  gathered  in  the 
portico  of  the  hotel  to  see  him.  One  man 
climbed  to  a  window  on  the  outside,  and  looked 
in,  suggesting  a  burglar  or  thief.  The  dog  saw 
his  head;  his  eyes  reddened;  all  the  hair  on  his 
back  stood  up  straight,  and  I  never  heard  a 
growl  so  basso  profunda.  It  was  a  fine  exhibi- 
tion of  nature.  I  took  to  him  at  once,  paid  the 
money,  and  had  him  sent  express,  by  sea,  to 
Constantinople. 

"He  came  safely  a  few  days  after  I  landed  and 
was  taken  immediately  to  the  Sultan,  who  had 
already  dispatched  several  messengers  to  ask 
about  him.  He  is  now  in  clover  and  his  master 
is  delighted  with  'Victorio.'  When  Mehemet, 
the  Kavass,  took  the  dog  to  the  palace,  every  one 
in  the  reception-room  gave  a  glance  and  then 
ran.  'It  is  a  Hon,'  they  said.  At  last  accounts 
he  was  playing  with  the  Httle  princes,  and,  it  is 
said,  the  Sultan  is  getting  acquainted  with  him. 

"You  think  the  price  a  large  one  to  give  for  a 


38  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

dog;  and  so  it  is.  It  would  buy  an  excellent 
horse  at  home.  But  it  was  to  be  a  present.  I  re- 
membered the  beautiful  Order  offered  to  me,  the 
Arab  horses — which  the  law  forbids  my  accept- 
ance— the  jewels  I  may  not  receive.  Better  to 
forget  His  Imperial  Majesty  had  asked  for  a 
dog  than  to  bring  him  a  second-rate  animal. 

"So  much  for  the  gift,  which  was  a  pleasant 
thing  on  both  sides.    With  love  to  all, 

**Your  father,  most  affectionately, 

"Lew  Wallace." 

Under  the  Cypresses. 

Flowers  fade,  leaves  wither, 

But  the  constant  cypress  is  green  forever. 

Greek  Song. 

When  we  are  told  that  the  largest  cemeteries 
in  the  world  are  in  Turkey  the  words  give  no 
suggestion  of  the  immense  spaces  crowded  by 
the  bodies  of  those  who  have  died  in  and  about 
Constantinople.  Four  miles  of  continuous 
graves  skirt  the  ancient  walls;  four  miles  of 
cypress  forests  point  the  resting  place  of  unnum- 
bered thousands.  The  trees  are  shaped  like  our 
Lombardy  poplar — tall,  slender,  taper  as  a 
plume.  In  spring  the  foliage  is  almost  black, 
contrasting  with  flowery  terraces  and  gardens 


UNDER  THE  CYPRESSES.  39 

glowing  with  color  like  a  dreary  fringe  bordering 
some  splendid  garment.  Thus  they  darkly 
shadow  the  Asian  shore  on  the  heights  beyond 
the  hospital  where  Florence  Nightingale  taught 
us  how  divine  a  spirit  may  wear  mortal  form 
and  minister  to  men. 

The  piny  smell  of  the  evergreen  and  its  res- 
inous  sap  destroy  the  miasmas  of  graveyards, 
afid  the  far  reaching  roots  absorb  poisons  from 
decayed  and  decaying  human  bodies.  Not  only 
without  the  walls  appear  the  graves;  in  nooks 
and  corners  of  the  venerable  capital  are  dense 
clumps  within  fenced  spaces  protecting  antique 
sepulchers.  Among  the  gay  villages,  kiosks  and 
palaces  that  sparkle  on  the  banks  of  the  Bos- 
phorus,  the  mourning  tree  waves  its  funereal 
banner,  teaching  the  old,  old  lesson:  *Tn  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death."  There  ringdoves 
coo  and  murmur  ever  of  love,  and  pigeons  nest 
undisturbed  by  the  Moslem,  who  never  fails  in 
pity  for  the  "dumb  peoples  of  the  wing  and 
hoof." 

Turkish  tombstones  are  narrowest  at  the  base, 
and  soon  lean  and  topple.  Many  lie  prostrate, 
making  seats  for  the  living  who  are  free  and 
fearless  neighbors  of  the  dead.  Some  of  the 
cemeteries  are  used  as  pleasure  grounds  for  the 
soldiery;  the  crumbling  stones  mend  highways. 


40  ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 

repair  walls,  and  repeatedly  I  have  seen  a  hand- 
some slab  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away 
or  serve  as  doorstep  to  a  tumble-down  hut. 
Children  play  in  the  somber  alleys,  washwomen 
hang  clothes  and  stretch  lines  on  the  headstones, 
and  ladies  with  veils  of  snowdrift  and  mist,  drawn 
close  by  henna-stained  fingers,  picnic  and 
sprinkle  sweet  basil,  for  remembrance,  above  the 
beloved  who  have  passed  from  sight.  There  is 
a  soft  air  of  resignation  in  their  manner — the  vir- 
tue which  Mahomet  taught  is  the  key  to-  all  hap- 
piness— and  they  wear  no  mourning.  Sinful  it 
is  to  show  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  friends.  It  is 
believed  that  children  of  over-mourning  parents 
are  driven  out  of  Paradise  and  doomed  to  wan- 
der through  space  in  darkness  and  misery,  weep- 
ing as  their  relatives  do  on  earth. 

Christians  are  mistaken  in  supposing  Paradise 
denied  to  Oriental  women.  Their  tombstones  are 
carved  with  flowers,  blazoned  with  texts  from 
the  Koran  in  blue  and  gold,  and  with  such  epi- 
taphs as  the  one  we  copy  from  the  grave  of  a 
young  girl  in  Pera: 

The  chilling  blast  of  Fate  caused  this  nightingale  to 
wing  its  course  to  heaven.  It  has  there  found  merited 
felicity.  Zababa  wrote  this  inscription  and  offered  up 
a  humble  prayer  for  Zeinab.  But  weep  not  for  her;  she 
has  become  a  dweller  in  the  fadeless  gardens  of  Paradise. 
1223. 


UNDER    THE    CYPRESSES.  41 

Epitaphs  commence  with  an  invocation  to 
Allah. 

"He,  the  Immortal,"  or  "Alone,  the  Eternal." 

Upon  a  tomb  near  the  Medina  we  find: 

God,  the  Imperishable. 

Pardon  me,  O  Lord,  by  virtue  of  thy  resplendent  firm- 
ament and  the  Koran's  light.  Approach  my  happy  bed  of 
rest,  write  the  date  with  a  jewelled  pen  and  breathe  a 
prayer  for  my  soul.  Rivers  of  tears  cannot  efface  the 
dear  heart's  image  from  the  sight  of  a  sorrowing  husband. 
1 140. 

A  peculiar  and  unique  inscription  is  to  be  read 
upon  a  plain  stone  by  the  Rose  market.  It  may 
be  translated  : 

He,  the  Immortal. 

The  hands  of  a  cruel  woman  caused  the  death  of  the 
blessed  and  pardoned  Hadje  Mohammed,  the  engraver. 
Pray  for  him.  1120. 

The  Story  goes  that  the  devout  and  sancti- 
fied sufferer  did  not  come  to  his  end  by  sickness 
or  battle,  famine  or  accident.  He  had  a  vixen 
wife  who  persecuted  him  day  and  night  till  she 
literally  worried  him  to  death.  Feeling  sure  his 
hour  was  come,  the  engraver  engraved  his 
modest  epitaph  and  resignedly  gave  up  the 
ghost,  doubtless  consoled  by  thoughts  of  the 


42  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

long  revenge  he  had  on  the  virago.  The  sweet 
mother,  the  fair  daughter,  the  young  wife,  Gul 
Bahar,  Rose  of  Spring,  rest  near.  Their  mem- 
ories are  forever  dear  to  those  who  loved  them. 
The  gentle  dust  of  White  Violet,  Tulip  Cheek, 
Forget-Me-Not  Eyes,  was  precious  to  their  sur- 
vivors. As  we  stroll  among  the  moldering 
stones,  written  over  with  moss-grown  records, 
we  feel  the  human  heart  is  the  same  in  all  ages, 
wistfully  yearning  for  its  kindred.  And  again 
we  ask,  where  be  the  bad  people  buried?  For 
none  but  the  lovely  lies  here.  Nearly  all  graves 
have  a  stone  at  the  head  and  feet  and  upon  them 
the  dread  angels,  Nakir  and  Munkir,  will  fold 
their  livid  wings  and  stand  when  they  descend 
to  judge  the  world  at  the  last  day. 

Beyond  the  Golden  Horn  is  a  vast  Jewish 
cemetery,  which  is  desolation  itself.  Bare  of 
verdure,  leaf  or  tree,  the  stones  lie  flat,  as  though 
pressing  down  the  restless  feet  of  the  scattered, 
wandering  and  persecuted  race  that  is  even  in 
the  sepulcher  denied  the  right  of  an  upright 
memorial. 

The  grim  nakedness  of  this  necropolis  is  so 
forbidding  we  turn  from  its  oppressive  gloom 
to  the  cheerful  burial  grounds,  where  roses  scat- 
ter bloom  and  perfume  and  the  acacia  red- 
dens the  footpath  of    the  pious  Osmanli,  tell- 


UNDER    THE    CYPRESSES.  43 

ing  his  rosary  beads  of  amber  and  murmuring 
the  ninety-nine  names  of  Allah.  When  ten  thou- 
sand voices  call  to  prayer  from  ten  thousand 
minarets  and  the  green  stillness  echoes  the  thrill- 
ing chant  he  will  slowly  wend  homeward. 

What  thinks  he?  Of  cool  pavilions  under  the 
palms  in  the  golden  pleasure  fields  kept  for  the 
faithful.  Of  soft  arms  and  white  hands  beckon- 
ing to  bowers  of  bliss,  where  he  shall  recline  on 
green  pillows  and  drink  of  the  happy  river,  in  the 
light  of  the  great  white  throne.  His  faith  knows 
no  variableness,  and  among  the  sleepers  he  seems 
a  dreamer  of  dreams,  a  seer  of  visions.  Should 
he  enter  Stamboul  late  and  the  watchman  chal- 
lenge he  will  rouse  from  quietude,  give  his  name 
in  answer,  and  reverently  add,  ''There  is  no  God 
but  God."  A  creed  which  may  be  written  on  the 
finger  nail;  a  dread  battle  cry  and  the  confession 
of  faith  to  nine  thousand  millions  of  worshipers 
since  Kadijah  knelt  with  the  prophet  in  prayer 
and  said :    "I  will  be  thy  first  believer." 

On  the  gravestone  of  the  laborer  is  traced 
some  symbol  of  his  craft.  In  the  long  lines  of 
ruin  and  neglect  we  have  signs  of  the  work  left 
unfinished.  Here  is  the  lancet,  there  the  adze, 
an  oar,  an  inkstand,  a  lance,  and  on  each  stone 
is  a  little  hollowed  space  to  hold  water  for  the 
doves,  whose  brooding  notes  of  peace  are  more 


44  ALONG   THE   BOSPHORUS. 

Stilling  than  silence.  Even  the  unresting  birds  of 
the  Bosphorus,  les  antes  damne^  seek  shelter  in 
the  cypresses.  When  storms  sweep  from  the 
Black  Sea,  they  shrilly  scream  and  flap  their 
white  wings,  fleeing  like  frightened  ghosts.  Only 
oii  such  tempestuous  airs  are  shades  of  the  lost 
allowed  to  revisit  their  buried  bodies. 

In  summer  eves  sparks  of  fire  rise  and  vanish 
among  the  boughs  of  the  trees — phosphorus 
from  decaying  bones,  popularly  supposed  to  be 
spirits  of  the  departed  hovering  about  the  scene 
of  their  earthly  prison  house,  reluctant  to  leave  it 
till  the  judgment  day.  Common  tombstones  are 
kept  in  mason's  sheds.  Better  monuments  are 
made  to  order  and  books  of  epitaphs  are  ready 
for  the  bereaved  to  choose  the  tender  verse  or 
holy  text  which  expresses  his  feeling.  In  the 
death  fields  of  the  forgotten  an  imposing  column 
is  a  reminder  of  the  many  who  die  to  win  a  vic- 
tory for  one.  A  small  plot  inclosed  by  a  railing, 
a  pillar  in  the  center  surmounted  by  a  large  tur- 
ban, around  it  lesser  columns,  represent  a  pasha, 
bey  or  high  magnate  lying  in  the  midst  of  his 
family.  Stately  mausoleums  guard  the  ashes  of 
sultans,  and  members  of  the  royal  house  repose 
in  kingly  magnificence.  Chief  among  them  is 
the  temple  of  Mahmoud  11. ,  close  to  his  mosque. 
The  conqueror  is  alone  in  his  palace  of  peace — 


UNDER    THE    CYPRESSES.  45 

a  Splendid  composite  of  Greek  and  Italian  archi- 
tecture, exquisite  in  proportion  and  detail,  rich 
as  a  jewel  case.  The  interior  is  brilliant  with  tiles 
of  vivid  color,  blue  and  white  arabesques,  and  the 
lettering  of  the  Koran  in  gold.  Priceless  mo- 
saics inlay  the  floor  beneath  rugs  like  brocaded 
silk.  There  is  no  earthly  smell — no  ghastly  sug- 
gestion in  the  light  and  lovely  chapel.  The 
raised  bier  points  towards  Mecca,  and  instead  of 
a  sable  pall  is  draped  with  Persian  shawls  bright 
as  feather  work.  Candles  in  great  silver  stan- 
dards cheer  the  pleasant  place,  lusters  depend 
from  the  ceiling  and  ostrich  eggs  swing  from 
gilt  ropes,  emblems  of  death  and  life  undy- 
ing. In  the  long  sleep  Mahmoud  is  not  stretched 
on  the  warrior's  "steel  couch,"  but  lies  as  we 
fancy  a  princess  might  slumber,  softly  pillowed 
in  her  luxurious  chamber,  awaiting  the  call  of  the 
angel  of  the  resurrection. 

Across  the  Golden  Horn,  beyond  Eyoub,  rises 
a  high  plain,  once  a  military  camp,  where  the 
legions  raised  the  new  emperors  on  their  shields. 
There  many  Turkish  soldiers  have  memorials; 
they  died  for  the  faith  and  are  martyrs  whose 
cimeters  have  opened  the  rose-door  of  Paradise. 
Their  prowess  is  celebrated  in  aerial  traditions 
and  ancient  war  songs,  and  in  the  moonlight 
their  cenotaphs  stand  like  sheeted  specters.     A 


46  ALONG   THE   BOSPHORUS. 

large  proportion  of  the  stones  are  broken  at  the 
top,  the  turbans  carried  away — a  dishonor  im- 
posed on  the  Janissaries  by  Mahmoud,  the  re- 
former, after  the  massacre  of  25,000  in  revolt. 

The  view  from  this  city  of  the  silent  is  un- 
speakably beautiful;  to  attempt  portrayal  would 
be  folly.  Glittering  white  as  snow  on  the  sixth 
hill  of  Stamboul,  is  the  airy  minaret  of  the 
mosque  of  the  Sun  and  Moon  Sultana,  built  by 
her  from  the  sale  of  the  jewels  set  in  one  slipper. 
This  was  done  in  the  long  gone  era  when  heroes 
with  bodies  of  iron  and  nerves  of  steel  wore  the 
sword  of  Othman,  the  Bone-Breaker,  and  the 
winds  of  the  Marmora  and  Euxine  wafted  wealth 
from  two  continents  into  the  tideless  harbor  of 
Constantinople.  At  Eyoub  is  a  mosque  resplen- 
dent, mysterious,  to  which  only  the  Moslem  is 
admitted.  Hallowed  is  the  soil,  envied  the  re- 
pose of  him  who  goes  to  dust  near  the  relics  of 
the  prophet,  whose  tomb  at  Medina  is  covered 
with  the  splendor  of  unceasing  light. 

In  this  holy  of  holies  are  the  mantle  of  Ma- 
homet and  his  green  standard,  woven  when  the 
man,  who,  beyond  all  men,  has  had  the  greatest 
influence  on  the  human  race,  was  a  handsome 
boy  in  Arabia.  Sleepless  sentinels  are  on  duty 
day  and  night,  and  once  a  year  the  flag  is  un- 
locked   from    its    rosewood    coffer,     incrusted 


SERAGLIO    POINT.  47 

with  pearls  and  precious  gems,  and  is  removed 
from  its  forty  silken  coverings  and  exposed  to 
the  adoring  gaze  of  the  faithful.  Under  a  lofty 
palm  tree  is  the  mausoleum  of  the  standard- 
bearer  himself,  who  fell  with  the  first  army  before 
Byzantium.  His  body,  found  eight  centuries 
later  by  the  Conqueror,  was  placed  in  this  august 
sanctuary  dedicated  to  him.  Five  times  a  day 
did  he  prostrate  himself  in  prayer,  and  the  arch- 
angels stretched  forth  their  arms  to  anoint  him 
as  he  knelt.  Coveted  be  the  life  he  lived  and  the 
death  he  died.  As  the  long  shadows  slant  at 
evening  a  great  silence  possesses  the  illustrious 
shrine,  whose  sanctity  is  never  profaned  by  the 
tread  of  Giaour  or  unbelieving  Jjew. 

To  the  musing  traveler  the  dim  asolian  sound- 
ings overhead  are  sweet  as  organ  peal  or  funeral 
march,  and  when  night  winds  blow  across  the 
fields  of  mortality  the  swaying  cypresses  vibrate 
to  low,  melancholy  music  the  saddest  requiem 
ear  ever  heard. 


Seraglio  Point. 

October   25th. 

Yesterday  was  made  memorable  by  a  visit  to 
Seraglio  Point.    It  was  the  Greek  Acropolis  be- 


48  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

fore  the  Turkish  conquest,  and  the  beauty  loving 
race  chose  their  site  for  palaces  and  citadel  with 
unerring  judgment.  I  have  written  elsewhere 
that  there  is  no  beauty  like  the  beauty  of  Italy; 
but  the  all  beholding  sun  looks  on  no  one  scene 
of  such  supreme  loveliness  as  this  meeting  of 
two  continents  and  two  seas.  The  court,  the 
camp,  the  sanctuary  of  twenty-two  Sultans. 
There  are  days  when  the  voyageur  nearing  the 
Point  sees  an  enchanted  city  float  up  out  of  the 
great  deep.  A  silvery  mist  veils  and  wraps  in 
mid  air  temples,  cupolas,  minarets,  domes,  tow- 
ers, over-hanging  terraced  hills  of  green  gardens 
and  cypress  groves.  O,  that  my  words  were 
colors  to  paint  a  fadeless  picture  fresh  to  me, 
to-day,  as  when  first  it  rose  on  my  enraptured 
sight. 

To  the  Western  mind,  the  term  Seraglio  sug- 
gests merely  the  portion  of  the  Imperial  resi- 
dence set  apart  for  women.  This  is  a  sweep  of 
walled  territory  four  miles  long  and  two  miles 
wide,  enclosing  strange,  irregular  buildings 
mixed  with  fantastic  pagodas,  towers,  kiosks, 
groups  of  antique  palaces  that  might  have  been 
prisons  or  pleasure  houses.  One  may  wander 
there  weeks,  months,  and  yet  not  know  it.  The 
rose  gardens  are  overgrown  with  weeds,  the 
fountains  silent,  the  nightingale  has  fled  and  the 


d^^^^i^y '-%:<''''  y:^'-.i ''/'  ■  <  -■  ■!.>^i}'\- :t^^ .-^^-:'^  ^a 


Palais  dc  Yildiz. 

\'M,V.  49. 


SERAGLIO    POINT.  49 

sepulchral  gloom  of  cypresses  is  unrelieved  by 
the  singing  of  birds.  Where  once  was  chatter 
and  laughter  of  children  there  now  is  deathlike 
solitude.  Guards,  soldiers,  dwarfs,  jesters,  eu- 
nuchs, dancers  and  singers  with  lute  and  cymbal, 
have  vanished  with  the  court;  removed  to 
Yildiz  about  four  miles  away.  Where  the  waters 
of  the  Marmora  softly  pulse  in  the  unbroken 
stillness,  there  was  formerly  a  ceaseless  stir 
of  humanity  under  the  rule  of  one  man  to 
whom  all  other  men  were  earthworms.  There 
is  still  the  half  circular  palace  capable  of  accom- 
modating five  hundred  women,  with  alcoves  and 
attendants,  baths,  gardens,  a  gorgeous  strong- 
hold from  which  death  was  the  only  escape.  But 
did  the  musky  odalisques  wish  to  leave  this 
walled  Eden?  Who  knows  may  tell.  Oriental 
women  are  the  only  ones  I  have  known  who  ap- 
pear contented.  There  is  a  serenity  in  their  faces, 
a  repose  in  their  manner  pleasant  to  the  pilgrim 
from  the  far  country  we  love  to  call  our  own, 
the  land  of  feverish  unrest. 

The  true  Oriental  is  secret  as  the  grave;  home 
life  is  not  open  even  to  the  stranger  within  the 
gates,  but  there  is  a  significant  Moslem  proverb, 
"a  house  with  four  wives  is  like  a  ship  in  a  tem- 
pest." Our  missionaries  (on  whom  be  peace!) 
hold  that  Christianity  has  tempered  the  faith 


50  ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 

and  practice  of  Islam,  although  converts  are 
never  made.  Certainly  women  are  more  kindly 
treated  now  than  they  were  two  hundred  years 
ago.  When  a  Sultan  of  the  seventeenth  century 
died,  the  ladies  of  his  harem  were  drowned,  then 
brought  to  the  serai,  laid  on  shawls  and  sent  to 
their  mausoleum  with  the  pomp  of  an  Imperial 
funeral.  Now  they  are  merely  held  like  state 
prisoners,  never  to  be  seen  by  mortal  man 
though  their  widowhood  lasts  for  years.  So  far 
as  we  know,  the  silken  cord  of  the  bowstring  has 
circled  no  fair  throat  in  the  last  fifty  years.  I 
once  saw  in  a  German  history  an  engraving  of 
this  act  of  execution.  The  victim  sat  in  a  'chair 
and  two  men  at  the  back  were  drawing  the 
crossed  cord  round  the  neck.  A  cruel  thing  but 
less  barbarous  than  hanging  is. 


Throne  Room. 

Among  detached  and  scattered  edifices  is  the 
deserted  Throne  Room — a  low  pavilion  sur- 
rounded by  a  light  colonnade.  It  is  directly  op- 
posite the  Gate  of  Felicity  that  admits  to  the 
Seraglio  proper,  and  there  the  King  of  a  hundred 
Kings  used  to  sit  cross-legged  with  the  dumb 
fixedness  of  an  idol  to  receive  the  homage  of  his 


THRONE    ROOM.  $1 

officials  and  foreign  envoys.  Whoever  was  gra- 
ciously allowed  to  enter  must  kiss  the  threshold. 
In  the  vestibule  are  drums  and  the  kettles  of  the 
Janissaries  which,  turned  upside  down,  made 
Padishas  tremble  and  turn  pale,  and  terrified  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  harem. 

The  throne  is  shaped  like  an  immense  bed- 
stead, the  four  posts  of  gilded  copper  inlaid  with 
pearl  and  rough  turquoises  and  rubies;  placed 
before  the  Turk  understood  the  art  of  cutting 
stones.  They  uphold  a  wonderful  canopy, 
fringed  and  jeweled,  and  two  turbans,  symbols 
of  power.  On  the  Divan,  eight  coverings  of  gold 
and  precious  stones  were  spread,  and  through 
four  centuries  the  guarded  doors  were  closed 
against  every  Christian  not  a  representative  of 
a  King  or  a  nation.  From  this  august  height, 
Solyman  the  Magnificent  wrote  to  the  Shah  of 
Persia,  'The  entire  universe  flows  by  before 
me. 

And  well  might  he  style  himself  Lord  of  the 
Mighty  whose  voice  could  be  heard  in  Paradise. 
Twenty  different  races  inhabited  the  wide  re- 
gions shadowed  by  his  horsetail  standards.  The 
venerated  cities  of  Bible  and  -classic  history,  ex- 
cept Rome,  Syracuse  and  Persepolis,  were  his 
tributaries. 

The  Mediterranean  was  his.     'The  sea  of  all 


52  ALONG  THE   BOSPHORUS. 

civilization,  and  almost  all  history,  girdled  by 
the  fairest  countries  in  the  world."  The  muez- 
zin's clear  call  to  prayer  floated  across  Mars 
Hill  and  the  Carthaginian  Bay,  and  from  the 
Golden  Horn  to  the  Pyrenees  shone  the  baleful 
light  of  the  crescent  on  his  incarnadine  banners. 
And  all  this  was  subdued  to  the  descendants  of 
Ertogral  within  three  centuries  of  the  time  that 
chief  was  a  lawless  adventurer  with  a  following 
of  not  five  hundred  fighting  men. 

In  the  Chamber  of  Supplication,  the  Ambas- 
sador of  Queen  Elizabeth  petitioned  Murad 
Third  for  help  against  the  gathering  Armada  of 
Philip  Second,  but  the  Giaour  might  not  look 
in  the  face  of  the  Brother  of  the  Sun.  Curtains 
veiled  the  splendor  of  the  Destroyer  of  the  ene- 
mies of  the  true  faith,  and  one  finger  was  thrust 
through  the  railing  of  mother-of-pearl  for  the 
envoy  to  kiss.  A  high  contrast  to  the  demeanor 
of  the  Prophet  (he  rests  in  glory!)  who  humbly 
declared  he  was  but  as  other  men,  except  as  re- 
garded his  mission  from  on  High. 

Diplomacy  is  not  what  it  was  then.  Hardly 
could  the  Ambassador  see  behind  the  network  of 
gold  the  fateful  Being  who  held  the  keys  of  Des- 
tiny; his  eyeballs  glittering  like  stars  in  dark 
shadow.  An  awesome  sight  for  the  despised 
Christian  who  ranked  with  dogs  and  Jews.     In 


THRONE    ROOM.  53 

those  golden  years  the  Sultan  of  Constantinople 
was  rich  enough  to  build  fleets  with  silver  an- 
chors and  silken  cordage,  and  nine  hundred 
horses  of  the  serai  were  led  to  silver  mangers, 
each  by  his  Bulgarian  groom.  Moveless  on  his 
velvet  cushion,  perfumed  with  musk-rose  and 
lavender,  the  Grand  Seigneur  received  the  keys 
of  walled  cities  sent  by  tributary  chiefs  in  token 
of  submission;  ponderous  keys  wrought  like 
swords  and  damascened  with  d'or  and  argent 
laid  beside  jeweled  turbans  of  dethroned  rajahs. 
There,  too,  were  deposited  the  keys  of  every 
shrine  sacred  and  dear  to  Jew  and  Christian. 
Nor  have  all  the  Powers  of  Earth  been  able, 
though  many  have  desired,  to  wrench  them  from 
the  hands  of  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful,  the 
descendant  of  Othman  and  the  fair  Malkatoon. 
Anciently,  when  diplomatic  relations  were 
strained,  the  representatives  of  foreign  Govern- 
ments were  thrown  into  the  Seven  Towers — 
grim  and  threatening  fortifications  of  the  old 
wall.  The  Castle  is  one  of  the  bloodspots  of  the 
earth.  Traditions  of  living  sepulchers,  torture 
chambers,  prisoners  beating  out  their  brains  in 
forgotten  dungeons  fill  the  air,  but  there  is  not 
time  to  hear  them.  When  war  was  declared. 
Ambassadors  languished  in  the  Castle  till  peace 
came,  and  at  their  release  they  were  allowed  to 


54  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORUS. 

carve  on  the  outer  wall  some  memorial  of  their 
captivity.  The  inscriptions,  crumbling  and  half 
effaced,  are  pitiful  records  of  miseries,  written  in 
Latin,  German,  French,  Italian;  one  in  English 
dated  1699.  The  last  Ambassador  of  France  was 
confined  in  1798,  the  time  of  Napoleon's  expe- 
dition to  Egypt. 

And  again  we  say  we  are  living  in  better  days. 
The  old  barbarities  have  passed  aw^ay,  the  Seven 
Towers  are  a  habitation  for  dragons  and  a  court 
for  owls,  and  the  cypresses  are  not  watered  with 
life  blood.  Nor  does  the  Bosphorus  throw  up 
corpses  of  victims  executed  in  the  preceding 
night  to  be  drifted  into  the  swift  whirl  of  waters 
off  Tophane. 

(I  mention,  en  passant,  that  from  the  begin- 
ning this  has  been  the  feeding  place  of  the  fat 
lobsters  of  the  Bosphorus.) 

The  Kafess — translated  the  Cage — is  a  royal 
prison  of  two  stories,  the  lower  without  a  win- 
dow, and  is  said  to  be  furnished  luxuriously. 
It  contains  no  tenant  and  we  are  forbidden  to 
approach. 

In  the  brave  days  of  old,  on  the  accession  of 
a  Sultan,  the  other  members  of  the  reign- 
ing dynasty  were  put  to  death,  as  the  only 
way  to  prevent  intrigue  and  rebellion.  The 
Koran  briefly  commands,  "When  there  are  two 


Fountain  of  Tophane. 

Page 


THRONE    ROOM.  55 

Caliphs,  kill  one!"  and  the  early  sovereigns  of 
Islam  obeyed  the  holy  mandate.  Here  Prince 
Mohammed's  nineteen  brothers  were  strangled 
in  order  to  secure  the  repose  of  the  world,  and 
it  was  written,  "Death  by  the  hand  of  the  Pa- 
disha,  if  calmly  accepted,  is  the  open  door  to 
eternal  felicity.  The  Sultan  is  not  accountable 
while  he  destroys,  of  his  subjects,  under  the 
number  of  one  thousand  persons  a  day." 

The  cannon  announcing  the  death  of  Amurath 
Third  was  the  signal  of  doom  to  all  his  sons  but 
one,  and  the  man-slayers,  mutes  of  the  Seraglio, 
piled  nineteen  dead  men  at  the  feet  of  their 
brother  on  the  Imperial  throne. 

From  Seraglio  Point  is  the  best  view  of  Galata 
Bridge,  the  famous  pontoon  spanning  the  Gold- 
en Horn.  Over  it,  in  ceaseless  current,  passes  a 
multitude  like  the  multitude  John  saw  which  no 
man  could  number;  of  all  nations,  and  kindreds, 
and  people  and  tongues.  It  is  impossible  to  be 
conspicuous  on  that  crowded  highway.  If  clad 
in  skins  of  wild  beasts,  or  if  stark  naked,  or  creep- 
ing on  all  fours,  the  haughty  Turk  (most  tolerant 
of  men)  would  merely  glance  at  such  passer-by 
and  say  it  is  the  custom  of  his  people. 

It  must  have  been  a  stirring  sight  to  the  la- 
dies of  the  harem  when  they  were  more  closely 
kept;  but  the  Celestial  Abode  hard  by  the  Shrine 


56  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORUS. 

of  Shrines  to  the  Turkish  Conqueror  is  silent, 
damp,  neglected;  no  longer  the  retreat  of  tender 
and  delicate  women  dwelling  in  the  inner  cham- 
bers hung  with  rose  colored  satin,  their  unsunned 
loveliness  guarded  by  the  degraded  class  of  men 
to  whom  jealous  Princes  entrust  their  living 
jewels. 

In  one  of  the  lonesome,  empty  courtyards  is  a 
sycamore  called  the  tree  of  groaning,  where  dead 
men  have  hung  ''like  the  black  fruit  of  a  tree  in 
hell,"  whose  heads  were  the  perquisites  of  the 
hangman  and  were  ransomed  with  a  high  price 
by  kindred  and  friends  of  the  criminals. 

Imperial  Treasury. 

If  my  reader  is  not  tired  of  seeing  sights  we 
will  glance  at  the  last  and  most  dazzling:  The 
Imperial  Treasury.  It  is  built  of  dingy  marble, 
and  four  main  rooms  open  upon  one  another; 
before  the  solemn  ceremony  of  unlocking  the 
doors,  we  rested  in  an  ante-room  and  were  served 
with  conserve  of  roses  and  coffee  in  tiny  cups  set 
with  diamonds;  says  the  Moslem,  "Coffee,  to- 
bacco, opium  and  wine  are  the  four  cushions  on 
the  sofa  of  pleasure."  There  are  wild  legends 
of  hidden  treasure  underlying  what  we  see  and 
a  story  of  an  ancient  chest  in  this  Treasure 


IMPERIAL  TREASURY.  57 

House,  in  which,  in  1680,  was  found  a  box  hold- 
ing a  lesser  box  of  solid  gold.  Within  it  was 
a  skeleton  hand,  on  which  was  written,  "The 
Hand  which  baptised  Jesus."  A  relic  revered  by 
the  Greeks  as  the  hand  of  John  the  Baptist  that 
was  once  kept  in  the  Monastery  of  St.  John  on 
the  Golden  Horn.  Two  hundred  years  after  the 
fall  of  the  city  the  casket  was  found  in  the  Serag- 
lio. Souleiman  H.  gave  it,  as  something  exceed- 
ing precious,  to  the  Knights  of  Malta,  and  the 
golden  box  is  now  a  sacred  thing  in  one  of  the 
churches  at  St.  Petersburg. 

I  tell  the  tale  as  it  was  told  to  me.  There  is 
more  to  be  seen  than  we  can  ever  see  and  it 
would  tire  the  gentlest  of  readers  to  attempt  any- 
thing like  a  full  description.  There  is  a  cradle  in 
which  ten  Sultans  have  been  rocked;  it  is  inlaid 
with  pearls  and  precious  gems,  and  little  school 
bags  ablaze  with  jewels  hang  near  by.  There  are 
uncut  gems  in  basins,  emeralds  large  as  a  man's 
hand,  scimiters  blazing  like  the  magic  sword  of 
King  Arthur,  diamonds,  diamonds  everywhere, 
thick  as  in  Sindbad's  valley  and  Aladdin's  en- 
chanted cavern.  There  is  such  profusion  of  pre^ 
cious  things  that  after  awhile  one  begins  to  feel 
they  are  imitations;  surely  such  masses  of  inesti- 
mable value  cannot  belong  to  one  man  or  even  to 

one  Empire. 
5 


58  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORtJS. 

Think  of  a  prayer  carpet  of  amber  beads 
strung  on  silver  cord  and  netted  together.  What 
worshiper,  dead  and  forgotten  ages  ago,  knelt 
there  with  face  toward  Mecca? 

"Yet  still  about  it  dumbly  clings 
A  subtle  sense  of  holy  things, 
And  woven  in  the  meshes  there 
Are  strands  of  vows  and  shreds  of  prayer." 

Lying  here  and  there  are  golden  balls  fringed 
with  pearl  and  diamonds,  made  to  be  swung  on 
the  tops  of  tents;  and  amulets  of  occult  power, 
and  talismans  brought  by  emissaries  sent  to  far 
countries;  and  there  are  toys  for  the  wives  of 
despots  who  kissed  away  kingdoms  and  prov- 
inces, while  their  armies  were  unpaid  and  sub- 
jects starving.  Imagine  saddle  cloths  fringed 
with  gold  and  embroidered  with  Orient  pearls 
from  Oman's  deep  water.  Silver  and  turquoise 
are  common  among  piles  of  resplendent  things 
kept  in  dull,  dark  rooms  where  there  is  no  order, 
catalogue  or  arrangement  suggesting  dates. 
The  older  the  object  the  more  costly  and  bar- 
baric, especially  the  tribute  from  India,  and  the 
lavish  profusion  is  really  bewildering. 

The  strangest  weapons  were  there,  among 
them  an  ivory-handled  battle  axe,  its  white  sur- 
face wrought  in  curious  arabesques,  finely  con- 


IMPERIAL  TREASURY.  59 

trasting  with  the  blue  and  brilHant  blade  whose 
wavy  lines  proclaim  the  matchless  skill  of  ar- 
morers in  old  Damascus;  also  a  sword  of  secret 
power  and  unequaled  temper,  worn  by  some  un- 
named despot. 

The  Egyptian  Throne  kept  under  glass  sur- 
passes all  else  in  the  Imperial  Treasury.  It  was 
sent  to  Constantinople  after  the  conquest  of 
Egypt,  1578,  by  Sultan  Murad  Third,  contempo- 
rary of  Charles  Fifth  and  Henry  Eighth.  His 
chain  mail  was  gilded,  and  helmet  roped  with 
diamonds,  his  shield  embossed  with  diamond 
stars,  his  gold  stirrups  crusted  with  jewels  which 
captives  kissed  in  sign  of  submission.  I  am  in- 
debted to  Rev.  Henry  O.  D wight,  our  mission- 
ary at  Stamboul,  for  the  translation  from  Sufti 
Efifendi  of  the  account  of  Vizier.  Ibraham 
Pacha's  return  from  Egypt  after  its  conquest  by 
the  "Lords  of  the  Standards,"  and  the  spoils  of 
war  brought  home  to  his  Imperial  Master,  the 
Lord  of  the  Universe. 

There  had  been  serious  disturbances  in  Egypt 
during  forty  or  fifty  years.  Officers  sent  to  that 
region  by  Sultan  Suleiman  had  brought  to  the 
capitol  sums  of  money  so  large  that  the  Sultan 
was  afraid  to  accept  them  lest  the  gold  had  been 
collected  by  oppression! 

He  had  finally  overcome  his  scruples  by  advice 


6o  ALONG  THE  BOSPHORUS. 

of  the  highest  dignitaries  of  the  religious  hierar- 
chy, and  had  taken  the  money  as  a  trust  to  be 
applied  to  benevolent  purposes.  In  1578,  Sultan 
Murad  Third  had  found  it  necessary  to  send 
another  force  under  command  of  Ibraham  Pacha 
with  instructions  to  reorganize  and  regulate  the 
administration  of  Egypt.    He  returned  in  1581. 

On  the  night  of  Kadir  Gejessi  in  the  month  of 
Ramazan,  in  the  year  993  of  the  Hegira,  Sultan 
Murad  went  from  the  Seraglio,  for  the  evening 
service  of  Divine  worship,  to  the  Mosque  of 
Suleimaine.  The  next  day  he  visited  the  private 
apartments,  the  luxurious  bath  and  the  reser- 
voirs that  had  just  been  completed  at  the  Serag- 
lio; and  on  that  day,  before  the  court  rose,  word 
came  that  a  favorable  wind  had  brought  to  the 
city  the  Vizier-commanding,  Ibraham  Pasha, 
with  the  fleet  of  Admiral  Keliz  AH: 

"The  fleet  cast  anchor  off  the  Seven  Towers 
and  the  Vizier  repaired  immediately  to  the 
Palace,  and  the  next  day  Ibraham  Pasha  began 
to  unload  the  offerings  which  he  had  brought 
to  the  Sovereign  of  the  whole  earth.  First  there 
was  a  throne  of  240,000  pennyweights  of  beaten 
gold  set  with  precious  stones,  in  the  most  grace- 
ful and  elegant  manner,  by  the  hand  of  the  great- 
est masters.  For  instance,  of  common  jewels 
like  topaz  and  amethyst  none  had  been  used  of 


Vue  Pano.  Prise  de  la  four  i/c  G  a  lata. 


PAdlC 


« 

SBf 

1 

.'.j^s^  m^'-t-^ 

B|: 

m 

i^m 

t^  ' 

IBft  t' 

w-^k^fm^^ 

P'^H 

1   ^ 

'ss 
sr    i 

'-1 

^%^,!m 

■^HliH 

'^ 

i*-^    m-   v^v    r,.     ,  ^ 

t-u ^ 

IMPERIAL  TREASURY.  6l 

a  size  less  than  a  pigeon's  egg.  Emeralds,  and 
rubies  to  blind  the  eye,  and  choice  stones  of  other 
precious  sorts  were  set  in  the  midst  of  chasing 
and  hammered  work  so  exquisite  that  the  like  has 
nowhere  before  been  seen  or  described.  The 
engravers  and  jewelers  of  the  rulers  of  Egypt 
had,  in  a  word,  made  this  throne  in  the  most  per- 
fect style  of  their  art.  The  present  writer  was 
among  those  who  were  present  on  the  arrival  of 
this  magnificent  object,  and  when  the  officer, 
Mahmoud  the  Persian,  undertook  to  estimate 
the  value  of  this  priceless  throne  of  gold,  I  re- 
plied to  him,  'True  genius  should  enable  you  to 
fix  a  value  on  the  throne  when  the  Caliph  of  the 
age  and  the  Ruler  of  the  World  is  seated  upon 
it."  It  was  then  said  that  the  throne  of  the 
Sultan  is  costly.  It  is  not  meet  to  set  a  value 
on  it. 

After  leaving  Egypt,  Ibraham  Pasha  had  gone 
to  Syria,  and  there  attacking  the  despicable  race 
of  beasts  called  Druzes,  he  had  brought  them 
under  subjection  to  Islam,  taking  from  them 
thousands  of  guns,  bows  and  arrows,  and  spears. 
These,  with  this  throne,  and  sixty-three  loads  ol 
treasure,  amounting  to  173,000  pieces  of  gold, 
he  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  Sultan. 

After  the  solemn  exercises  of  Bayram,  Ibraham 
Pasha  laid  before  the  Sultan  the  treasure  and  the 


62  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORUS. 

choice  jewels  and  the  indescribable  riches  of  all 
sorts  which  he  had  brought  from  Egypt,  form- 
ing altogether  a  gift  of  beauty  and  splendor 
which  the  pen  of  a  writer  is  impotent  to  char- 
acterize. The  immensity  of  the  present  can  be 
judged  by  comparing  it  with  others.  The  gifts 
brought  from  Arabia  to  Sultan  Suleiman  by 
Suleiman  Pasha  are  celebrated,  but  have  no  com- 
parison with  the  immense  riches  presented  by 
Ibraham  Pasha,  not  having  the  one  hundredth 
part  of  the  value  of  these  riches.  Again  the  gifts 
offered  by  Mahmoud  Pasha  to  the  same  sover- 
eign have  been  much  in  the  mouths  of  the  people, 
but  they  were  not  equal  to  the  one  thousandth 
part  of  this  great  present. 

The  articles  presented  by  Ibraham  Pasha  were 
as  follows: 

Two  magnificent  manuscripts  of  the  Koran; 
one  rich  curtain  from  the  holy  Kaaba;  three 
jeweled  scimiters;  three  swords  jeweled  with 
diamonds  and  rubies;  three  Persian  daggers 
richly  jeweled;  three  finely  wrought  and  jeweled 
shields;  three  other  shields  handsomely  jeweled; 
three  wash  basins  and  jars  of  pure  beaten  gold 
handsomely  jeweled;  three  salvers  of  pure  gold 
set  with  jewels;  three  cups  of  gold  well  jeweled; 
three  other  salvers  jeweled;  seventy-nine  pieces 
of  Damascus  silk;  thirty-nine  pieces  of  Venetian 


IMPERIAL  TREASURY.  63 

velvets  of  all  colors;  twenty-nine  pieces  of  choice 
European  satin;  two  loads  of  fine  raw  silk;  one 
hundred  and  nineteen  pieces  of  figured  goods  of 
many  colors;  seventeen  head  of  eunuchs,  ten 
black  and  seven  white;  seven  stud  of  Arabian 
steeds  (the  first  stud  of  nine  horses  had  golden 
saddles  with  harness  and  trappings  of  gold  stud- 
ded with  jewels,  and  had  housings  of  crimson 
velvet  worked  with  pearls  and  precious  stones. 
The  next  stud  was  also  of  fine  horses  with  sad- 
dles and  trappings  of  gold  set  with  emeralds  and 
rubies.  The  third,  fourth  and  fifth  studs  had 
silver  saddles  and  trappings,  silken  reins  and 
housings  of  yellow  and  white  brocade,  and  two 
of  the  four  stud  were  covered  with  satin  horse- 
cloths. The  other  two  stud  had  jeweled  head- 
stalls and  silken  reins  and  horsecloths  of  red  bro- 
cade); one  small  elephant  with  a  housing  of 
crimson  broadcloth;  one  giraffe;  twenty-five 
loads  of  guns  and  other  arms  and  munitions  of 
war  taken  from  the  Druzes. 

According  to  the  careful  estimate  of  those 
qualified  to  judge,  the  value  of  the  gifts  pre- 
sented by  Ibraham  Pasha  was  twenty  times  one 
hundred  thousand  pieces  of  gold  without  any 
manner  of  doubt;  and  it  was  said  the  homage 
paid  by  an  humble  and  faithful  servant  to  his 
master  could  not  exceed  this  magnitude.    Any 


64  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORUS. 

greater  quantity  is  beyond  the  power  of  a  fertile 
imagination. 

And  in  the  month  of  Jemadi  ul  Evvel  in  the 
same  year  Ibraham  Pasha  became  the  son-in-law 
of  the  Sultan.  Among  the  profusions  of  the 
festivities  of  this  marriage,  Soutfi  Effendi  men- 
tions that  Ibraham  Pasha  distributed  to  his 
guests  three  thousand  wedding  garments. 

This  Padisha  is  well  named  the  Bloody.  After 
the  surrender  of  Cairo  he  ordered  the  butchery 
of  fifty  thousand,  the  entire  population  of  the 
city.  His  Viziers  rarely  held  their  high  ofifice 
more  than  a  month  and  the  chronicler  fails  to 
record  how  the  victorious  son-in-law  fared.  In 
addition  to  the  list  given  by  Soutfi  Effendi,  a 
thousand  camels  laden  with  gold  and  silver  came 
to  the  capital  by  caravan. 

The  contents  of  the  Treasury  are  sacred  and 
we  see  the  accumulations  of  centuries,  where 
every  Sultan  has  tried  to  outdo  his  predecessors. 
During  the  Crimean  war  basins  of  jewels  were 
given  in  pledge  for  a  loan,  and  kept  a  short  time 
in  the  vaults  of  the  Ottoman  Bank,  soon  to  be 
redeemed;  so  the  Treasure  House  has  aptly  been 
compared  to  the  Caspian  Sea,  into  which  vast 
rivers  run,  and  from  which  nothing  goes  out. 
As  I  said,  Friday  is  the  Moslem  Sunday,  Satur- 
day the  Jew's,  the  first  day  of  the  week  the 


IMPERIAL  TREASURY.  65 

Christian's,  and  since  neither  regards  the  other's 
holy  day,  there  seems  to  be  none  in  this  city  of 
a  milHon  souls. 

Returning  to  Therapia  cold  winds  from  the 
Black  Sea  chill  us  to  the  bone,  though  there  is 
no  frost.  Leaves  are  dropping  with  ripeness  and 
figs  hang  purple  and  look  deHcious. 

We  should  Hke  a  stove  on  the  steamer  but  the 
natives  do  not  appear  cold,  Hving  out  of  doors 
the  year  round.  On  the  sunny  side  of  a  ruined 
wall,  the  little  Hunchback  was  telling  his  tale  as 
we  passed,  old  Sindbad  was  giving  his  adventures 
to  an  audience  of  fishermen  who  mended  their 
nets,  the  barber  was  shaving  and  hair  cutting  in 
his  place  of  business,  i.  e.,  the  sidewalk — the  tai- 
lor sat  cross-legged  on  his  bench  under  a  balcony 
and  the  lazy  Aladdin  played  with  other  idle  boys 
in  the  street.  Arabian  Nights  all  over.  Zobeide 
and  Fatima  looked  through  their  lattices  with 
starry  eyes.  It  is  well  they  are  shut  in,  for  one  of 
them  if  seen  in  the  unveiled  splendor  of  her 
charms  would  make  all  mankind  die  of  love.  So 
says  Mustapha. 

The  crowning  unreality  of  a  day  like  the  stuflf 
that  dreams  are  made  of  was  a  visit  to  a  Princess, 
the  Pearl  of  two  Seas.  Her  palace  stands  in  a 
Lalla  Rookh  garden  with  walls  about  twenty  feet 
high,  the  airs  delicious  with  the  faint  smell  of  the 


66  ALONG   THE  BOSPHORUS. 

jasmine.  Servants  in  waiting  at  the  gates  were 
dazzling  in  gold  lace,  rainbow  sashes,  swords  and 
pistols.  She  is  well  guarded  by  night  and  by 
day,  by  land  and  sea.  Two  eunuchs,  tall,  jet 
black  fellows  in  Paris  suits,  each  with  whip  of 
rhinoceros  hide  in  hand,  held  the  door  of  the  re- 
ception hall.  We  were  beckoned  by  them  to  the 
screened  boudoir  of  the  lady  fair.  It  was  hung 
with  Broussa  silk,  the  floor  of  blue  and  white 
mosaic  was  softened  with  velvety  rugs  of  Bok- 
hara and  Korassan.  Nested  among  pillows  of 
silk  and  lace  was  the  lady  we  sought,  soft  in  her 
movements  and  dimpled  as  a  baby  of  four 
months.  If  you  can  fancy  a  child  thirty  years 
old  you  have  her  face.  In  her  teens  she  must 
have  been  beautiful  exceedingly — and  her  eyes 
— O,  those  Paradise  eyes!  Black  as  death,  bright 
as  stars  of  midnight.  Her  skin  exquisitely  fair, 
a  throat  of  statuary  marble,  hands  that  would  de- 
light a  sculptor  to  model.  But  the  artist  will 
never  behold  her.  In  that  gilded  cage  the  bulbul 
sees  no  man  but  her  husband  and  the  black 
slaves.  She  seemed  glad  to  meet  us,  kissed  us; 
and  I  smiled  with  warmth  and  she  smiled  back 
again.  My  friend  who  interpreted  did  her  best 
to  throw  some  life  into  the  visit.  When  told  of 
the  great  things  the  women  of  England  and 
America  do  in  church  and  State,  the  Princess 


Along  the  Bosp horns. 

Page  67. 


IMPERIAL  TREASURY.  67 

Badoura  lifted  her  pretty  eyebrows  in  a  surprised 
way  and  said,  *'Wliy  you  are  slaves!"  And  there 
was  one  of  the  party  who  thought  the  Princess 
was  not  greatly  mistaken.  How  doveiike  she 
was,  as  she  kissed  us  again,  under  an  acacia  tree 
in  the  garden  bower,  and  hoped  we  were  not 
afraid  of  the  water! 

Count  C says  he  remembers  when  this 

peerless  Circassian  was  bought.  Nearly  three 
thousand  dollars  was  the  first  price,  but  the  buyer 
beat  the  father  down  to  twenty-five  hundred. 
The  Prince — a  real  Prince  Charming — is  very 
fond  of  his  Janilla  (Pink  Tulip)  as  well  he  may 
be,  and  she  changed  eyes  with  him  childishly 
as  though  there  was  no  such  thing  as  art  in  the 
world. 

The  slave  trade  is  abolished  by  law  but  we  are 
told  that  thousands  are  brought  yearly  from 
Georgia,  Circassia,  the  ancient  Colchis,  and 
Arabia,  as  this  Lily  of  Paradise  was  bought  and 
planted  in  the  Garden  of  Perfection — lifted  from 
poverty  unspeakable  to  silken  luxury  in  palace 
rooms  lined  with  alabaster,  and  cushioned  with 
eider-down  and  lavender. 


II. 

LEPERS  AND  LEPROSY  IN  THE  EAST. 

Not  many  years  ago,  one  mild  afternoon  of 
November,  we  neared  Ramleh,  tlie  resting-place 
between  the  Mediterranean  and  Jerusalem,  and 
glad  were  we  to  descry  the  lofty  white  tower 
from  whose  height  is  seen  the  loveliest  landscape 
in  Palestine.  We  had  left  behind  the  orange- 
orchards  of  JafTa,  with  golden  fruitage  guarded 
by  cactus  hedges,  had  crossed  the  Plain  of 
Sharon,  almost  a  solitude,  capable  yet  of  main- 
taining a  population  dense  as  when  the  herds  of 
Solomon  grazed  the  rich  pastures  stretching  far 
away  to  the  North.  Picture-like  villages  clung 
to  the  hillsides.  Eastward  lay  the  purple  moun- 
tains of  Samaria.  Westward  a  line  of  dying  color 
marked  the  halcyon  sea  which  sparkles  under  the 
sea-blue  sky,  close  beside  the  excellency  of  Car- 
mel.  Even  in  mourning,  lamentation,  and  woe 
we  see  the  Land  of  Promise  w^as  once  the  glory 
of  all  lands,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth. 

Every  step  of  our  way  had  been  trodden  by  the 
feet    of   renowned    warriors,    heroes,  prophets, 

69 


70  LEPROSY   IN   THE   EAST. 

kings;  has  rung  with  the  clash  of  steel,  and  glit- 
tered with  the  curved  cimeters,  in  whose  shadow 
Paradise  is  prefigured  to  the  faithful.  Ramleh 
(ancient  Arimathea)  was  headquarters  for  the 
armies  of  crusaders, — not  a  great  way  from  the 
spot  where  the  Lion-hearted  Richard  caught 
sight  of  Mount  Moriah,  and,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands,  refused  to  gaze  on  the  city  of 
the  crucifixion,  desecrated  as  it  was  by  the  in- 
fidel, crying,  "Ah,  Lord  God,  I  pray  that  I  may 
never  see  the  Holy  City,  if  I  may  not  rescue  it 
from  the  hands  of  thine  enemies !" 

While  we  recalled  these  delightful  memories, 
— phantoms  of  all  time, — and  debated  what  the 
rose  of  Sharon  really  was,  we  heard  hoarse  cries 
like  the  screams  of  enraged  wild  beasts.  At  the 
same  moment  apparitions,  weird,  spectral,  with 
wiry  matted  hair,  sprang  from  the  hedges,  and 
held  out  hands  from  which  joints  had  rotted  off, 
lifted  up  arms  without  hands,  showing  stumps 
healed  over.  Their  eyelids  were  thickened  and 
drawn  back,  exposing  sightless  swollen  balls. 
Each  one  was  draped  in  a  garment  of  faded  blue 
cotton;  and  for  an  instant  the  feeling  was  that 
creatures,  neither  man  nor  woman,  neither  brute 
nor  human,  had  burst  out  of  their  graves,  and, 
with  bodies  decayed  and  decaying,  besought 
rescue  from  the  horrors  of  their  foul  prison- 


LEPROSY    IN    THE    EAST.  71 

house.  To  restore  the  mangled  shapes  to  health 
and  comeliness  would  appear  a  greater  miracle 
than  to  breathe  again  the  breath  of  life  into  an 
uncorrupted  body  from  which  the  spirit  has  fled. 

They  were,  indeed,  of  those  whom  the  ancient 
Jew  numbered  with  the  dead.  "These  four  are 
counted  as  dead,"  says  the  Talmud:  "the  blind 
and  the  leper,  the  poor  and  the  childless."  The 
carriage  stopped.  "Lepers!"  shouted  our  guide; 
they  did  not  venture  to  come  nearer.  We  flung 
the  expected  coin,  and  hastened  through  the 
gateway  which  those  outcasts  might  never  enter. 

And  thus,  again,  the  next  day,  when  we  ap- 
proached the  Holy  City.  The  Damascus  Gate  of 
Jerusalem  is  the  chief  entrance  for  pomp  and 
honor,  as  the  Joppa  Gate  is  in  the  main  thorough- 
fare for  trade  and  pilgrimage.  Outside  of  it  is 
the  leper  hospital;  but  the  patients  have  a  pre- 
cinct within  and  against  the  wall,  huddled  in  sheds 
of  wretchedness  and  filth  unspeakable.  Some  are 
eyeless,  having  merely  sunken  holes  in  empty 
sockets;  many  are  without  nose  or  ears;  all  are 
maimed  and  distorted,  hideous  past  telling.  They 
dare  not  touch  the  stranger,  and  rise  ghost-like, 
as  fabled  ghouls,  from  the  ground,  and,  without 
advancing,  lift  up  their  voices  afar  off,  as  the  ten 
described  by  Luke  (Luke  17:  12,  13).  They 
live  in  a  community  under  a  sheik,  also  a  leper, 


72  LEPROSY    IN    THE   EAST. 

and,  having  human  fellowship,  are  amazingly 
cheerful  over  their  tin  platters  of  copper  coin. 

There  for  ages  on  ages,  by  the  old  Fish  Gate, 
have  they  been  permitted  to  dwell,  to  marry 
within  the  forbidden  degrees,  perpetuate  their 
horrible  selves,  and  from  this  center  radiate  the 
awful  pestilence,  in  the  time  of  the  Apostles  con- 
sidered a  direct  "stroke  of  God,"  incurable  by 
human  means;  a  punishment  for  sins  of  special 
magnitude.  A  poor  bundle  of  dirty  rags  lies  on 
the  paving-stones.  That  is  a  baby  leper.  If  you 
dare,  lift  the  coverlet.  Oh,  the  horror  of  the 
spectacle!  You  see  a  loathsome  mass  of  rot, 
livid,  revolting.  It  should  be  buried  out  of  sight ; 
but  it  moves,  and  pipes  a  shrill  cry.  The  sinless 
soul  has  not  left  its  horrid  tenement,  and  may 
have  weary  years  of  struggle  before  it  can  escape. 

Often  baby  comes  into  the  world  fair  as  your 
first-born,  young  mother,  without  spot  or  blem- 
ish. The  stricken  father  plays  gently  with  the 
sticks  and  straws  which  amuse  the  little  one;  and 
the  mother  kisses  it  with  cancerous  kisses,  as 
they  march,  at  morning,  to  the  wayside  beyond 
the  walls,  the  better  to  catch  the  passing  traveler, 
and  ask  an  alms, — sometimes  in  heart-rending 
wails  or  meaningless  gibberish,  for  their  palates 
are  gone.  No  skill  can  remove  the  taint  from 
the  fair  child.     It  is  not  reached  by  medical 


LEPROSY    IN    THE    EAST.  73 

knowledge,  or  tempered  by  foresight  or  sanitary 
measures,  is  without  arrest  or  palliation, — a 
doom  hopeless,  inevitable  as  death.  At  maturity, 
if  not  earlier,  the  plague  begins,  and,  strangely 
enough,  is  attended  by  slight  pain.  Discolored, 
inflamed  splotches  appear  on  the  skin;  lumps 
rise  under  it,  and  change  to  festering  sores  and 
putrid  ulcers.  The  face  swells;  the  muscles  of 
the  mouth  contract  and  lay  bare  the  ghastly 
grinning  teeth;  the  eyeballs  are  shapeless  and 
broken  "like  bursted  grapes," — let  me  spare  the 
reader  the  sickening  detail.  Microbes  are  eating 
through  the  tissues  and  into  the  very  marrow  of 
the  sufferer, — or  do  they  batten  on  each  other? 

Moses  writes  of  the  whiteness  of  leprosy, 
"white  as  snow"  (Exod.  4:  6;  Num.  12:  10; 
2  Kings  5  :  2f).  He  refers  to  a  grisly  mould  or 
mildew,  shining  like  scales,  which  sometimes 
forms  on  the  surface.  The  different  varieties  are 
described  by  the  Hebrew  with  minute  exactness, 
and  it  was  dreaded  as  the  most  terrible  calamity 
possible  to  man.  The  victim  was  dead  to  the 
law,  to  civil  life,  to  the  temple  service.  In  caves 
of  the  wilderness,  in  dens,  and  among  rocky 
tombs  he  sought  shelter,  in  a  sort  of  death-in-life, 
rotting  piecemeal;  and,  so  long  face  to  face  with 
the  destroyer,  we  can  imagine  he  would  welcome 
the  pang  which  at  last  released  him. 
c 


74  LEPROSY    IN   THE   EAST. 

Physiologists  assert  that  Syria  is  one  of  the 
most  favorable  regions  for  the  perfect  develop- 
ment of  the  physical  and  mental  powers  of  the 
human  race,  and  insist  that  under  stringent  regu- 
lations leprosy  would  disappear,  as  it  has  from 
Britain  and  France.  Here  it  has  been  from  earli- 
est historic  times.  In  the  days  of  Elisha  there 
were  many  lepers  in  Damascus,  and  under  a  hot 
sun,  in  reeking  noisome  huts,  with  poverty  of 
blood  and  lowered  system  following  exposure 
and  insufficient  food,  the  colony  at  the  Jaffa 
Gate  has  small  chance  of  "cleansing."  They  are, 
in  the  expressive  words  of  Luke,  full  of  leprosy, 
and,  like  Job,  clothed  with  worms  and  clods  of 
dust.  "My  breath  is  corrupt,  my  skin  is  broken 
and  become  loathsome."* 

We  are  told  the  ancient  type  no  longer  exists; 
it  is  now  communicable  only  by  close  contact. 
Of  old  it  was  more  violent,  and  who  entertained 
a  leper  became  himself  polluted,  and  subject  to 
the  same  laws,  one  of  which  was  forty  stripes  if 
he  entered  a  town.  The  walls  of  his  house,  cloth- 
ing utensils,  the  very  stones,  were  pronounced 
accursed,  and  dangerous  sources  of  contagion. 
This  makes  more  noticeable  the  last  Sabbath  of 
Christ  upon  the  earth.  He,  with  His  disciples, 
dined  at  the  house  of  Simon  the  leper;  "an  act 

*  It  is  believed  in  the  East  that  Job  was  a  leper. 


LEPROSY    IN    THE    EAST.  75 

sternly  forbidden  by  the  ceremonial  law  which 
He  had  come  to  fulfil  and  supersede."  In  the  vil- 
lage of  the  poor,  with  the  outcast,  in  the  home 
of  extremest  suffering,  the  alabaster  box  of  oint- 
ment, very  precious,  was  broken,  and  our  Savior 
was  anointed  for  the  sepulcher. 

The  disease  was  probably  an  outgrowth  of 
many  miseries  in  the  hard  bondage  of  Israel  in 
Egypt.  At  the  beginning  of  the  exodus,  Moses 
ordered  all  lepers  without  the  camp,  in  laws 
merciless  and  sweeping,  isolation  without  appeal 
or  exception.  In  Egypt,  the  segregation  reached 
even  to  animals;  for  it  was  believed  swine  were 
liable  to  leprosy,  and  for  that  cause  forbidden  as 
food.  To  the  Christian  descendants  of  the  an- 
cient Egyptians  (Copts),  pork  is  an  abomination. 
They  will  not  touch  the  unclean  thing. 

History  records  that  the  two  hundred  years 
of  the  Crusades  scattered  the  seeds  of  leprosy 
throughout  Europe.  In  the  medieval  years  it 
swept,  an  epidemic,  across  three  continents. 
High-born  delicate  women,  men  in  the  bloom 
and  flower  of  youth,  the  king  on  his  throne,  the 
starveling  on  the  ash-heap,  were  alike  smitten. 
Henry  of  Lancaster  died  of  leprosy  at  West- 
minster in  141 3;  Robert  the  Bruce  was  leprous; 
and  Baldwin  IV.,  illustrious  King  of  Jerusalem, 
died  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  a  leper. 


76  LEPROSY   IN    THE   EAST. 

No  latitude  is  exempt  from  its  influence,  and 
all  climates  are  friendly  to  the  growth  of  the  evil 
I  am  trying  to  describe.  It  spreads  in  temperate 
zones,  in  Iceland  and  the  Polar  Circle,  in  arid 
deserts  of  Africa  and  the  wet  districts  of  Batavia, 
in  Asia  Minor, — one  of  the  fairest  portions  of 
the  globe, — and  penetrates  frigid,  ice-bound 
Russia.  It  follows  the  track  of  the  Chinese  Cooly 
on  sea-coasts,  thrives  thousands  of  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea  in  healthful  plateaus  of  old  Mex- 
ico, and  finds  congenial  home  in  the  pure  salt  air 
of  the  islands  of  the  South  Seas.  Doubtless  su- 
perstition and  fear  have  magnified  its  power  in 
our  times,  and  even  after  death  the  poor  leper 
is  still  outlawed  and  avoided.  To  this  day,  the 
Spanish  peasant  believes  that  a  leprous  corpse 
contaminates  the  earth,  imparts  its  contagion, 
and  defiles  bodies  buried  around  it  in  the  church- 
yard. 

In  certain  old  cathedrals  of  France,  at  the 
back  of  the  choir,  half-way  up  in  the  crypt,  the 
tourist  may  see  an  empty  stone  cell  made  for  the 
leper  in  the  sanctuary.  There  he  might  pray, 
lost  amid  shadows  and  reprobation,  in  the  midst 
of  multitudes,  yet  lone  as  the  corpse  under  the 
coffin-lid.  From  the  depths  of  his  dreary  cage 
the  bloated  savage  face,  pressed  against  the 
openings  of  the  wall,  must  have  appeared  like 


LEPROSY    IN    THE    EAST.  'J'J 

some  terrible  mysterious   animal,  confined  by 
strong  bars  to  prevent  outrage. 

In  his  desolation,  the  prisoner,  innocent  of 
crime,  might  listen  to  the  roll  of  organ  music, 
the  responsive  singers  (so  sweet,  so  sweet,  I  hear 
them  yet !),  might  scent  the  incense  and  hearken 
to  the  intoning.  But  he  was  a  blot  among  the 
adornings  of  the  sacred  place.  He  could  not 
claim  kinship  with  any  one  of  the  crowd  that 
came  and  went  all  day;  he  was  nothing,  could 
never  be  anything,  but  an  alien  from  humanity, 
and,  for  no  fault  of  his  own,  abhorred,  a  thing  to 
shrink  from  and  shudder  at.  Not  for  him  the 
smile  of  woman,  the  hand  of  man,  th,e  prattle  of 
children.  In  the  soft  gloom  over  the  altar  he 
could  see  (if  sight  were  spared)  the  great  still 
Christ,  wounded  in  hands  and  feet  and  side. 
With  what  rapture  the  man  broken  in  heart  and 
body  must  have  worshiped  the  unseen  One  that 
pathetic  image  represented;  and  how  he  must 
have  rejoiced  in  the  gracious  message  to  the 
heavy  laden,  written  above  the  bleeding  fore- 
head :  "Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest !" 


III. 
A  TRIP  TO  HEBRON. 

By  Mrs.  Henry  S.  Lane. 

No  fairer  morning  ever  dawned  over  the  Holy 
City  than  on  November  14,  1882,  when  General 
Wallace  (then  Minister  to  Turkey)  met  his 
friends,  in  front  of  the  Mediterranean  Hotel,  to 
ride  through  the  country  to  Hebron.  The  ac- 
complished Governor  of  Jerusalem,  with  an  es- 
cort of  troops.  Consul  Selah  Merrill  and  wife, 
Mr.  Cook,  of  London,  and  others,  formed  the 
party. 

We  passed  out  the  old  historic  Jaffa  Gate, 
where  idle  Turks  were  smoking,  and  buyers  and 
sellers  chattering  in  unknown  tongues  over  their 
wares.  Camels  moaned  their  sad  moan,  children 
chickens  and  donkeys  covered  with  the  dust  of 
the  road  all  mingled  together,  making  a  motley 
assemblage  daily  seen  in  the  open  court  under 
David's  Tower.  The  horrible  sights  and  sounds 
from  the  lepers'  quarter  are  past  describing. 
Down  through  the  Valley  of  Gihon  to  the  Valley 
of  Giant,  leaving  the  traditional  tree  on  which 

79 


8o  A  TRIP  TO   HEBRON. 

Judas  hanged  himself,  we  cross  the  boundary 
line  between  Judah  and  Benjamin,  where  the 
Philistines  were  defeated  by  David,  pass  the  well 
of  the  Magi,  where  the  wise  men  saw  the  star  re- 
flected in  its  depths.  Eastward  were  the  glorious 
heights  of  Olivet,  with  its  sacred  associations, 
and  the  sweet  garden  of  Gethsemane,  owned  now 
by  Russians,  under  the  care  of  a  young  monk — 
where  the  fragrance  of  lavender  filled  the  air,  and 
flowers  bloomed  beneath  the  pale-green  olive 
trees,  poetically  believed  to  have  been  there  in 
that  night  of  sorrow,  when  Jesus  wept  and 
prayed^  and  His  pure  soul  suffered  the  bitterness 
of  betrayal. 

From  a  high  ridge,  one  long,  Hngering  look 
back  gave  us  the  view  of  the  city,  beautiful  for 
situation,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth;  the  gilded 
domes,  graceful  minarets,  sparkling  fountains, 
touched  with  the  splendor  of  sunlight,  over  em- 
battled gates  and  walls — made  a  picture,  once 
seen,  remembered  forever. 

An  hour's  ride  brought  us  to  the  tomb  of 
Rachel  the  wife  beloved  of  Jacob,  for  whom  he 
served  so  many  years;  but  love  lightened  his 
labor  and  it  seemed  to  him  but  a  few  days.  He 
set  a  pillar  over  her  grave.  The  modern  monu- 
ment marks  the  burial  place  near  Ephrath  (Beth- 
lehem).   Never  has  it  been  doubted  or  disturbed 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  8l 

in  all  these  centuries,  but  is  revered  to-day  by 
both  Jews  and  Gentiles.  Once  a  year  the  Rabbi 
comes  from  Jerusalem,  with  a  procession  of  men 
and  women,  to  recite  a  long  form  of  prayer,  and 
wail  over  the  departed  glories  of  their  race.  The 
famous  "Sheik  of  the  Jordan,"  was  our  guide, 
philosopher  and  friend.  He  was  dark  but  comely, 
with  great  melancholy  eyes,  and  an  expression  of 
conscious  strength  and  power  indicative  of  the 
man,  was  most  fantastically  dressed  in  loose 
flowing  drapery  of  bright  colored  stuffs,  over 
Turkish  trousers,  with  a  broad  belt  bristling  with 
knives,  daggers  and  pistols  of  the  finest  quality, 
presented  to  him  by  General  Grant  and  other  dis- 
tinguished travelers,  whom  he  had  protected 
from  the  wild  Bedouins  in  their  excursions 
through  the  Wilderness.  An  immense  ring 
adorned  his  massive  right  hand;  on  his  majestic 
breast  shone  star-like  decorations,  richly  jeweled, 
of  various  orders,  bestowed  by  the  Sultan,  and 
gorgeous  as  in  the  days  of  Haroun  Al-Raschid. 
A  yellow  silk  Kufiyeh,  woven  in  threads  of  gold, 
from  the  looms  of  Damascus,  was  wound,  turban 
fashion,  around  his  royal  head. 

His  handsome  gray  Arab,  shod,  not  like  Pi- 
zarro's,  with  silver,  but  with  rough  iron  nails  for 
climbing,  was  gaily  caparisoned  with  beads, 
fringes  and  tassels.    His  greatest  delight  was  in 


82  A   TRIP   TO    HEBRON. 

performing  remarkable  feats  of  horsemanship  for 
our  amusement.  Evidently,  he  held  the  barb 
dearer  than  any  or  all  his  wives.  The  graceful 
animal  was  worthy  the  afifection  lavished  on  him 
by  the  master  he  so  faithfully  served.  The  rest 
of  us  had  to  be  contented  with  ''Cook's  best." 

The  aspect  of  the  Judean  Hill  country  is  most 
mournful.  The  spell  of  the  curse  has  fallen 
heavily  upon  it,  withering  its  fields,  leaving  it 
sad,  silentj  and  forlorn — treeless  and  barren, 
desolate  as  death,  gloomy  as  the  grave. 

On  the  coins  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Judea  is 
well  represented  as  "3.  widow,  seated  under  a 
palm  tree,  captive  and  weeping." 

Such  a  weary,  weary,  heart-breaking  land. 

It  IS  almost  impossible  to  believe  the  many 
millions  who  formerly  inhabited  this  country 
could  have  been  supported  without  the  daily 
miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes.  But  the  soil, 
once  so  productive,  has  been  washed  from  the 
terraced  hills,  into  the  valleys  below,  where  men 
were  patiently  plowing  with  the  same  crooked 
stick  used  in  the  time  of  Moses.  Seemingly  con- 
tented with  their  slow  way  of  working,  their 
simple  pastoral  condition,  they  have  no  desire 
for  change,  or  thirst  for  improvement. 

Restless  Americans  would  call  them  conserva- 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  83 

tives,  if  not  benighted  idiots.     But  a  true  Ori- 
ental never  hurries  or  worries  over  anything. 

His  ideal  life  is  having  plenty  to  eat,  little  to 
wear,  and  nothing  to  do.  Without  any  sense  of 
responsibility  he  seems  to  feel — 

"The  God  who  made  me, 
Knows  why  he  made  me  what  I  am." 

The  fatalism  of  the  East  is  found  everywhere 
— their  only  response  to  misfortune  is  ''Kismet," 
"Fate." 

The  midday  luncheon  was  spread  under  a  tent 
by  the  servants,  near  the  pool  of  Solomon — three 
open,  square  cisterns  of  broad  stones  laid  in  solid, 
well-preserved  masonry.  These  were  built  by 
the  wise  man  who,  in  the  gladness  of  his  heart, 
wrote  his  cheerful  songs  about  watering  the 
world  that  bringeth  forth  trees,  pleasant  fruits, 
myrrh,  olives,  spices,  a  fountain  of  gardens,  and 
wells  of  living  water. 

Under  a  low  stone  doorway,  down  a  flight  of 
slimy  steps,  into  a  dark  arched  grotto,  we  drank 
from  "The  Sealed  Fountain,"  an  unfailing 
spring,  which  formerly  supplied  Jerusalem  with 
an  abundance  of  pure  water,  and  with  new  aque- 
ducts could  furnish  what  the  city  most  needs  to- 
day, where  water  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  ask- 
ing, and  the  Arab  saying  holds  good,  "that  the 


84  A  TRIP  TO   HEBRON. 

water  provider  will  be  always  blest,"  for  he  is 
daily  remembered  by  the  faithful  in  their  hour  of 
prayer. 

Only  by  traveling  through  Palestine  can  one 
fully  understand  the  significance  of  Christ's  illus- 
trations about  'living  water."  Here  it  means 
literally  life;  the  well  is  of  greater  value  than  the 
land;  it  belongs  to  the  man  who  makes  it,  and 
his  family  and  tribe  forever ! 

The  sweetest  associations  of  Syrian  life  cluster 
around  the  well. 

Further  in,  we  pass  some  ancient  ruins,  sup- 
posed to  be  the  burial  place  of  the  Prophet 
Jonah,  and  several  guard  houses,  where  Arab 
soldiers  are  stationed  to  protect  solitary  pilgrims 
from  thieving  Bedouins,  who  infest  these  deso- 
late roads,  robbing  with  impunity,  unless  the 
avenging  sword  is  in  sight.  They  are  a  law  unto 
themselves,  and  acknowledge  no  other  ruler. 

We  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  picturesque  Httle  vil- 
lage, in  the  lovely  Valley  of  Urtas,  where  a  Euro- 
pean colony  made  the  wilderness  rejoice  and 
blossom  as  the  rose.  The  tender  green  of  grow- 
ing gardens  relieved  the  dull  uniformity  of  the 
landscape. 

I  marveled  at  the  taste  of  the  Syrian  girl,  who, 
while  visiting  in  America,  soon  wanted  to  return 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  85 

to  her  own  gray  sands,  '"She  was  so  tired  of  the 
everlasting  green  over  there." 

On  the  sunny  slopes  of  distant  hills  we  occa- 
sionally saw  a  young  shepherd,  with  his  crook, 
tending  scattered  flocks  of  black  goats,  climbing 
where  nothing  else  could,  and  eating  what  noth- 
ing else  would. 

A  few  straggling  Arab  traders  walked  beside 
their  patient^  long-suffering  camels,  bending  be- 
neath their  load  of  Eastern  merchandise.  Very 
carefully  our  horses  picked  their  way  among  the 
rocks  of  this  rough,  narrow,  and  almost  impass- 
able road,  supposed  to  be  the  oldest  in  the 
world.  The  Roman  legions  tramped  it,  the  gay 
Knight  Templars  traveled  it,  and  Abraham 
passed  on  that  journey  of  faith  to  sacrifice  his 
son  Isaac  on  Mount  Moriah.  Here  David  led  his 
armies  to  battle  and  to  victory.  Here  Jacob  and 
Solomon  walked.  And  Joseph,  with  Mary  bear- 
ing the  young  Christ  in  her  arms,  in  their  ''Flight 
into  Egypt,"  may  have  rested  and  played  with 
her  cherished  child,  as  other  loving  mothers 
would  on  the  long,  wearisome  way. 

The  once  beautiful  Valley  of  Eschol,  remem- 
bered for  the  wonderful  grapes,  which  the  spies 
bore  on  their  shoulders  on  their  return  from  the 
promised  land,  can  produce  no  such  mammoth 
specimens    now.     An     oval-faced,    brown-eyed 


86  A  TRIP  TO   HEBRON. 

daughter  of  Ishmael,  clad  in  a  loose  blue  bour- 
nous,  fastened  at  the  throat,  stood  at  the  roadside 
of  a  neglected  looking  vineyard,  asking  back- 
sheesh, and  offering  some  sickly-looking  white 
grapes  for  sale.  We  bought  and  ate,  finding 
them  sweet  and  refreshing.  Neither  figs  nor 
pomegranates  could  be  found. 

This  child  of  nature,  as  graceful  as  uncon- 
scious, smilingly  bowed  her  thanks  for  the  cen- 
times, and  with  her  strong,  muscular  arms,  ac- 
customed to  burden  bearing,  tossed  the  great 
basket  of  fruit  to  her  head,  lifted  the  pretty 
brown  baby  to  her  shoulder,  walked  away  with 
the  dignity  of  one  born  in  the  free  air  of  the 
desert, 

"Happy  that  she  knows  no  more." 

The  day  was  hot,  the  air  still  and  lifeless; 
exhausted  with  the  long,  hard  ride,  it  was  a  de- 
lightful surprise  to  distinguish,  in  the  purple  twi- 
light of  parting  day,  American  flags  floating 
from  the  group  of  white  tents  the  advance  guard 
had  picturesquely  arranged  under  the  shadow  of 
the  mountains  round  about  Mohammedan  Heb- 
ron. 

The  Governor  who  honored  the  party  with 
his  presence  insisted  on  stopping  at  the  "khan" 
in  the  city,  but  our  wise,  experienced  dragoman 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  87 

(when  the  decision  was  left  to  the  ladies)  whis- 
pered us  to  take  to  the  tents,  where  we  would 
escape  the  creeping  things  which  live  and  thrive 
in  these  rickety  old  houses;  and  much  to  the  dis- 
appointment of  the  Jewish  keeper  we  turned 
from  his  enclosure  and  alighted  at  our  tent  door. 
After  an  excellent  dinner,  served  with  many 
courses,  in  good  style,  we  closed  "tired  eyelids 
upon  tired  eyes." 

But  the  braying  of  mules,  barking  of  dogs, 
whistling  of  the  night  watch,  and  the  summer 
sounds  of  insect  life,  together  with  the  novelty 
of  the  situation,  banished  all  but  waking  dreams 
from  my  mind. 

The  dear  home  stars  hung  heavenly  lights 
above  the  glorious  banner  which  crowned  our 
tent,  and  the  God  of  Abraham  watched  with  me, 
at  his  tomb. 

I  rejoiced  that  morning  light  would  give  us  the 
sight  so  long  waited  for,  of  the  venerated 
Mosque  in  this  quaint  old  stone  built  city. 
After  a  cup  of  stimulating  Turkish  coffee  (my 
only  dissipation),  the  horses  were  brought  out, 
and  we  rode  through  the  narrow,  filthy  places, 
miscalled  streets,  where  the  population,  thought 
to  number  ten  or  twelve  thousand,  are  the  low- 
est, poorest,  most  degraded  looking  creatures  I 
ever  beheld. 


88  A   TRIP   TO    HEBRON. 

"Terrible  as  an  army  with  banners"  this 
strange  procession,  with  thirty  armed  men, 
looked  to  these  isolated,  ignorant  Moslems. 

The  city  was  built  seven  years  before  Zoan, 
in  Egypt,  by  David,  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel, 
who  made  it  his  capital  before  Jerusalem,  and 
held  his  court  here  many  years.  It  was  first 
called  "Kirjath  Arba,"  later,  "El-Klialil,"  "The 
Friend."  It  is  one  of  the  most  authentic  of  the 
ancient  places  in  the  Holy  Land.  Mecca,  Me- 
dina and  Jerusalem  are  the  only  cities  dearer  to 
the  Moslem  heart.  All  rich  in  associations, 
though  poor  in  everything  else,  no  evidence  of 
industry  or  thrift  is  visible;  their  only  manufac- 
ture was  an  inferior  quality  of  glass,  made  into 
various  forms.  We  bought  "ropes"  of  beads  and 
bracelets  as  souvenirs  for  friends,  wishing  the 
liras  given  in  return  might  be  miraculously  mul- 
tiplied to  relieve  the  wants  of  the  suffering 
people. 

When  the  struggle  for  bread,  which  underlies 
most  men's  lives,  becomes  a  controlling  force, 
then  life  grows  bitter  and  hard  to  bear — such  it 
looked  to  be  in  Hebron. 

Here  Absalom  was  born,  and  in  all  Israel  there 
was  none  so  much  praised  for  his  beauty,  "from 
the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of  his  head,  there 
was  no  blemish  on  him."    Joseph  went  out  from 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  89 

here  to  seek  his  brethren  in  Shechem,  and  they 
returned  with  only  his  bloody  coat.  Abner  was 
treacherously  murdered  by  Joab,  and  buried 
here.  King  David  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept, 
saying,  "know  ye  not  a  prince  and  a  great  man 
is  fallen  this  day  in  Israel?"  Joshua  went  up  from 
Eglem  and  all  his  armies  fought  against  it,  de- 
stroyed it  utterly,  and  all  the  souls  that  were 
therein.  Afterwards  it  was  given  to  Caleb  as  an 
inheritance  because  he  wholly  followed  the  Lord 
God  of  Israel. 

The  strongest  claim  to  distinction  which  the 
historic  city  possesses,  is  its  time-stained  mosque, 
built  ages  on  agey  back,  over  the  cave  of  Mach- 
pelah,  meaning,  "double  cave." 

The  purchase  of  this  field  by  Abraham  is  the 
first  legal  contract  recorded  in  history.  The  first 
known  interment  of  the  dead.  The  first  assign- 
ment of  property  to  the  Hebrew  people  in  the 
Holy  Land.  Abraham  mourned  and  wept  over 
his  beloved  Sarah,  asked  for  a  place  to  bury  her 
out  of  his  sight.  He  refused  to  receive  it  as  a  gift 
from  Ephron,  insisted  on  weighing  out  the  four 
hundred  shekels  of  silver  (current  money  with 
the  merchant),  in  payment. 

With  true  Oriental  courtesy  and  exchange  of 
compliments  between  the  old  patriarch  and  the 
sons  of  Heth,  the  contract  was  cornpleted.  AH 
I 


90  A  TRIP  TO   HEBRON. 

was  made  sure  unto  him  for  a  burial  place  for- 
ever. 

Many  centuries  have  passed  since  that  memor- 
able day,  many  wars  have  swept  over  the  coun- 
try, many  rulers  have  lived  and  died,  but  this 
consecrated  ground  has  at  all  times,  by  all  peo- 
ple, been  most  reverently  and  religiously 
guarded. 

The  outer  haram  walls  existed  in  the  fourth 
century.  The  longest  stone  measures  twenty- 
four  feet,  eight  inches  in  length,  by  three  feet, 
eight  and  one-half  inches  in  height;  the  average 
measurement  of  the  ancient  wall  from  base  to 
cornice  is  forty  feet.  The  period  is  represented  in 
work  similar  to  that  in  the  Jerusalem  haram, 
proving  it  was  constructed  near  the  same  period. 
The  original  church  occupies  the  southern  part  of 
the  inclosure.  Three  of  its  outer  walls  are  formed 
by  the  old  ramparts,  showing  traces  of  the  By- 
zantine era,  when  the  gallant  crusaders,  carrying 
the  banner  of  the  Holy  Cross,  under  the  leader- 
ship of  Coeur  de  Lion  and  Godfrey  de  Bouillon, 
whose  heroic  deeds  have  been  sung  in  song  and 
told  in  story, pitched  their  tents  on  those  hillsand 
captured  and  held  the  church  nearly  a  hundred 
years.  In  1 187,  Saladin,  fighting  under  the  green 
banner  of  the  prophet,  drove  out  the  Christians, 
changing  it  to  a  mosque,  enlarging  and  beautify- 


A   TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  9^ 

ing  it  with  modern  improvements,  and  Moslems 
have  since  held  it  in  undisputed  possession. 

Though  not  as  handsome  as  the  Mosque  of 
Omar  in  Jerusalem,  or  as  grand  as  St.  Sophia  in 
Constantinople,  it  is  the  only  spot  on  earth  sa- 
cred alike  to  Jew,  Christian  and  Mohammedan. 

Will  they  worship  together,  when  the  millen- 
nium comes  in? 

So  jealously  is  it  guarded  now  by  fanatical 
Turks  that  only  three  or  four  parties  have  ever 
been  permitted  to  see  the  interior  of  the  Mosque, 
''Christian  dogs"  are  generally  stoned  from  the 
door.  But  the  Sultan  in  Constantinople  kindly 
gave  a  "firman"  to  General  Wallace,  which  was 
the  "open  sesame"  to  all  their  shrines  in  Pales- 
tine. A  grave,  venerable-looking  Sheik,  dressed 
in  flowing  cloth  robes,  royal  as  "the  purple," 
wearing  the  green  turban  proving  that  he  had 
made  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  and  was  entitled 
to  additional  respect,  after  kissing  the  black 
stone,  received  us  with  much  ceremony  in  the 
vestibule,  where  shoes  were  exchanged  for  slip- 
pers, as  silence  and  cleanliness  enter  into  the 
worship  of  the  Orient. 

With  great  solemnity  the  historic  house  is  en- 
tered. It  measures  seventy  feet  in  length, 
ninety-eight  in  width,  is  divided  by  a  nave  and 
two  aisles  of  approximately  equal  breadth.    The 


92  A   TRIP   TO    HEBRON. 

arched  roof,  covered  with  lead,  is  supported  by 
heavy  columns,  and  adorned  with  leaves  and 
small  volutes  of  mediaeval  character.  The  nave 
is  lighted  by  a  clerestory,  with  three  windows  in 
each  side ;  all  the  six  windows  are  "pointed  with 
low  point"  and  heavy  external  buttresses  occur 
between  the  side  windows.  A  casing  of  fine  mar- 
ble lines  the  walls  to  the  height  of  six  feet,  where 
an  Arabic  inscription,  probably  as  late  as  the 
twelfth  century,  is  graven  above  it. 

The  "Mihrab"  or  prayer  recess  in  the  end  wall 
nearest  to  Mecca  resembles  that  in  the  dome  of 
the  rock  at  Jerusalem. 

It  is  flanked  with  slender  pillars  with  richly- 
carved  capitals  of  Gothic  design,  and  by  two 
wax  torches. 

Above  the  Mihrab  is  a  window  of  stained  glass 
of  richly-colored  designs,  throwing  "a  dim,  re- 
ligious light"  over  the  interior. 

In  the  left  aisle,  a  Greek  inscription  is  built  in 
the  wall;  it  was  painted  red  and  contains  an  in- 
vocation to  Abraham  to  bless  certain  individuals 
at  whose  expense  it  was  erected.  It  dates  about 
the  time  of  Justinian. 

The  "Mimbar"  or  pulpit  is  exquisitely  carved 
of  cedar  wood  from  Damascus,  like  that  in  the 
Aksah  Mosque  at  Jerusalem,  and  w^as  presented 
by  Saladin  in  1187,  after  the  capture  of  Askalon, 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  93 

The  artistic  taste  of  the  cultivated  crusaders  is 
seen  in  this  curious  work. 

A  small  platform  called  the  "Merhala,"  near 
the  center  of  the  building,  is  intended  for  the 
public  reading  of  the  Koran  to  the  devout  wor- 
shipers here. 

Above  this,  the  walls  are  whitewashed  and  the 
name  of  God,  and  the  names  of  Mohammed, 
AH,  and  other  heroes  of  Islam,  are  painted  in 
black  on  medallions  attached  to  the  walls. 

The  capitals  on  pillars  are,  many  of  them,  yel- 
low, and  the  remains  of  fine  mosaic  with  mother- 
of-pearl  inlet,  are  visible  on  portions  of  the  build 
ing. 

No  graven  image  is  allowed  in  Moslem  wor- 
ship,— the  music,  the  incense,  the  chanting, 
which  lift  the  thoughts  heavenward  in  other 
churches  are  wanting  in  this. 

The  chief  interest  centers  around  the  ceno- 
taphs of  colored  marble  built  above  the  supposed 
graves  of  Patriarchs,  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob, 
who,  with  their  wives,  Sarah,  Rebecca  and  Leah, 
are  buried  beneath  the  floor  in  the  dark,  mys- 
terious cave  of  Machpelah. 

Each  has  a  separate  alcove,  entered  through 
an  iron-grated  door,  plated  with  silver  and  hung 
with  the  pretty  brass  crescents  from  Turkey. 
No  woman^s  foot  ever  before  crossed  the  thres- 


94  A  TRIP  TO   HEBRON. 

hold  to  this  Holy  of  Holies.  The  first  on  the 
right  was  dedicated  to  Abraham,  'The  Friend  of 
God."  The  cenotaph  was  eight  feet  long,  quite 
as  high,  and  half  as  broad,  and  was  covered  with 
green  and  white  silk  from  the  looms  of  Damas- 
cus, embroidered  in  gold,  with  Arabic  texts 
wrought  in  black  velvet.  Two  green  banners 
(sacred  color  to  the  Osmanlis),  lettered  in  gold, 
lean  against  the  wall. 

The  floor  is  made  soft  and  warm  with  fine  Per- 
sian rugs,  and  the  unspeakable  Turk  sits  cross- 
legged  before  the  low,  wooden  rest,  inlaid  with 
mother-of-pearl,  and  studies  his  beloved  Koran. 

"This  is  the  sepulcher  of  our  Father  Abraham 
upon  whom  be  peace."  *'God  is  God"  was  in- 
scribed above  the  door.  Around  the  shrine  were 
hung  curiously  carved,  antique  silver  lamps,  al- 
ternating with  ostrich  eggs,  which  to  these  su- 
perstitious people  as  well  as  the  Egyptians,  rep- 
resent the  principle  of  life,  or  resurrection. 

Their  strict  adherence  to  ancient  creeds,  their 
belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  their  sincere 
religious  enthusiasm,  must  command  the  respect 
of  all  worshipers  of  the  true  God. 

Across  the  open  hall  was  the  shrine  of  Sarah, 
"My  Princess,"  the  fairest  of  women,  whose 
loveliness  won  the  hearts  of  her  people,  whose 
strength  of  character  was  shown  in  her  absolute 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  95 

command  over  her  husband,  who  yielded  im- 
plicit obedience  to  her  wishes,  even  to  the  cruel 
casting  out  of  Hagar  and  her  boy:  "Though 
the  thing  was  grievous  in  Abraham's  sight." 

She  is  the  first  and  finest  type  of  the  ''strong- 
minded  woman"  on  record;  peace  to  her  ashes, 
which  rest  under  a  cenotaph  similar  to  Abra- 
ham's, with  crimson  satin,  embroidered  and 
gold  inscriptions  in  black  velvet  squares  let  in  the 
silk. 

We  pass  on  to  Isaac;  the  gentle  herdsman 
and  child  of  promise,  and  the  beautiful  Rebecca, 
whose  love  and  sweetness  comforted  him  after 
his  mother's  death. 

Each  in  separate  alcoves,  beneath  the  silken 
canopies,  are  honored  members  of  this  august 
society. 

Josephus  wrote  "the  fashion  of  these  monu- 
ments are  of  most  excellent  marble,  wrought 
after  the  most  elegant  manner." 

Holding  high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead, 
we  stand  before  the  tomb  of  that  grand  old  Pa- 
triarch, Jacob,  who  talked  face  to  face  with  God, 
and  in  obedience  to  the  Divine  voice  command- 
ing him  to  fear  not  went  down  into  Egypt. 

After  many  prosperous  years  spent  there, 
when  his  strength  failed,  and  his  eyes  grew  dim 
with  age,  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  vine-clad 


96  A  TRIP   TO    HEBRON. 

hills  or  the  old  home,  with  the  intense  yearning 
of  true  and  tender  hearts  in  foreign  lands  to  sleep 
among  their  kindred. 

He  commanded  Joseph  to  carry  him  back  and 
bury  him  in  the  cave  of  Machpelah.  He  was  em- 
balmed after  the  manner  of  the  Egyptians,  and 
was  mourned  for  three  score  and  ten  days.  Then 
Joseph,  with  the  elders  of  his  house,  the  servants 
of  Pharaoh,  the  chariots  and  horsemen,  with 
pomp  and  ceremony  befitting  the  occasion,  made 
a  magnificent  funeral  pageant,  not  excelled  in 
ancient  or  modern  times.  The  stillness  of  the 
valley  was  broken  by  the  advancing  army,  and 
the  heavy  notes  of  mournful  music. 

Again  the  portals  of  the  cave  opened  to  re- 
ceive the  body  of  the  founder  of  a  race  of  kings 
who  owned  Canaan  a  thousand  years. 

Once  more  the  stone  was  rolled  away  for  the 
last  sleeper,  and  the  stately  and  devoted  wife, 
Leah,  joined  the  silent  assemblage.  Her  tomb 
in  the  Mosque  is  decorated  with  rich,  heavy 
tapestry,  like  the  others.  As  often  as  these  be- 
come tarnished  by  time,  new  embroideries  are 
sent  by  the  Sultan  from  Constantinople. 

A  generous  gift  to  the  manes  of  the  illustrious 
dead,  worthy  Christian  imitation. 

Tradition  says  the  graves  of  the  three  women 
were  originally  in  the  outer  court;   but  in  later 


A   TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  97 

years,  with  increasing  admiration,  they  have  been 
considered  deserving  of  a  place  within  the  sacred 
walls. 

Neitlfer  the  past  nor  present  custodians  of  the 
building  have  ever  penetrated  the  shadowy  realm 
below.  No  visitor  is  allowed  to  enter  the  dark, 
dismal  vault;  but,  with  almost  idolatrous  rever- 
ence, a  guard  stood  round  the  small  circular 
opening  (less  than  two  feet  across),  in  the  floor 
of  the  Mosque,  when  a  burning  lamp  was  low- 
ered and  one  by  one  we  were  graciously  per- 
mitted to  bend  down  and  strain  our  eyes  through 
the  gloom  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  live  rock, 
visible  only  from  one  side — Nature's  sarcopha- 
gus !  holding  in  eternal  silence  the  ashes  dear  to 
the  hearts  of  the  readers  and  believers  in  the  Old 
Testament. 

There  is  no  historical  account  of  the  building 
of  the  great  quadrangle  surrounding  the  cave, 
and  no  reason  to  suppose  it  was  erected  before 
the  Captivity.  Many  mediaeval  writers  mention 
this  cave,  in  which  Adam  and  Eve  were  supposed 
to  live.  The  latest  recorded  visit  was  made  by 
Rabbi  Benjamin,  of  Tudela,  in  1163,  who  entered 
the  Holy  of  Holies,  through  an  outer  chamber, 
down  a  flight  of  steps  no  longer  to  be  found.  No 
outside  entrance  remains. 

He  read  inscriptions,  ''This  is  the  tomb  of 


98  A  TRIP  TO   HEBRON. 

Abraham,  our  father;  upon  him  be  peace,"  and 
similar  ones  upon  the  tombs  of  Isaac  and  Jacob. 
At  that  time  a  lamp  was  burning  day  and  night, 
and  he  saw  great  tubs  or  arks,  described  in  the 
Talmud,  filled  with  the  bones  of  the  Israelites, 
brought  here  according  to  the  customs  of  their 
fathers,  where  they  would  remain  forever  undis- 
turbed. 

Like  the  ancient  Egyptians,  they  desired 
tombs  which  should  be  "eternal  dwelling  places." 
No  kingly  sepulcher  or  costly  mausoleum  of 
prince  or  potentate  will  endure  as  the  immovable 
foundations  of  this  everlasting  rock,  whose 
builder  and  maker  was  God ! 

If  any  wandering  Jew  approaches  these  jeal- 
ously-guarded precincts,  he  is  permitted  to  slip 
a  paper  prayer  through  a  rent  in  the  outer  wall, 
which,  like  the  great  beveled  stones  of  "the  wail- 
ing place,"  in  Jerusalem,  are  worn  smooth  with 
the  reverent  touch  of  lips  and  hands. 

On  the  faces  of  these  persecuted  pilgrims  is 
stamped  a  pathetic  expression,  from  patient 
waiting  for  the  coming  of  Christ  to  restore  them 
their  own  again. 

The  place  assigned  to  Joseph  in  the  Mosque, 
is  not  as  positively  substantiated  as  the  others. 

He  died  in  Egypt,  was  brought  up  and  laid  in 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  99 

consecrated  ground,  in  Shechem,  and  there  is 
no  record  of  his  removal. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  visit  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  in  1862,  he  explored  the  passage  leading 
to  the  cenotaph  of  Joseph,  and  made  drawings 
of  the  same. 

Further  down  the  aisle  two  apocryphal  shrines 
are  shown  as  Adam's  and  Eve's,  but  were  not 
sufficiently  authentic  to  "weep  over,"  on  the 
spot,  where  it  is  said  lies  the  head  of  Esau,  while 
his  body  was  buried  in  the  little  village  of  Siain, 
in  the  same  valley,  which  is  greatly  venerated. 
Here  is  the  stone,  brought  six  hundred  years  ago 
from  Mecca,  with  an  impression  shown  as  the 
foot-prints  of  Adam. 

Though  of  great  faith,  these  legends  could  not 
be  accepted  unquestioned. 

A  solitary  palm  stands  in  stately  beauty  by  the 
door  of  the  Mosque.  Beneath  its  shade  sat  the 
ubiquitous  blind  beggar  of  Syria,  asking  alms, 
which  were  freely  given. 

So  ignorant  and  lazy  are  these  natives,  it  will 
remain  always  a  solemn  mystery  how  they  man- 
age to  keep  soul  and  body  together. 

The  unchanging  habits  of  the  Orientals  are 
shown  in  their  adherence  to  ancient  customs  and 
laws.     Polygamy  is  part  of  their  religion  now, 


100  A   TRIP   TO    HEBRON. 

and  the  Bedouin  chief  who  came  from  Chaldea, 
nearly  four  thousand  years  ago,  is  the  same  chief, 
ruHng-  still  the  nomadic  tribes  of  the  desert. 

"The  ancestral  burying  place  is  the  one  fixed 
element  in  the  unstable  life  of  a  nomadic  race." 
This  Hebron  furnished  the  Patriarch. 

A  half-hour's  ride  from  the  city  brought  us  to 
the  old,  old  oak  (Terebinth  tree),  of  Mamre, 
which  measured  thirty-three  feet  around,  with 
wide-spreading  branches,  and  roots  walled  about 
with  stone,  to  protect  it  from  the  desecrating 
touch  of  the  spoiler.  The  ground  under  it  was 
bright  with  the  pale,  purple  crocus,  bravely 
blooming  in  the  barren  soil. 

A  branch,  bearing  acorns  from  this  famous 
tree,  is  framed  under  glass,  in  my  library,  an 
ever-present  memento  of  Mamre. 

Here  Abraham  builded  an  altar  to  the  Lord, 
who  appeared  unto  him  as  he  sat  in  the  doorway 
of  his  tent,  in  the  noonday  heat. 

The  prophetic  soul  of  the  venerable  Patriarch, 
looking  down  successive  ages,  saw  the  fulfill- 
ment of  the  Lord's  promise,  that  through  him 
should  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  be  blessed. 

The  three  angels  came  to  them,  and  Sarah 
made  ready  the  cakes  of  meal  upon  the  hearth, 
and  ministered  to  the  Heavenly  visitors.  In  fol- 
lowing her  precedent  of  loving  hospitality,  many 


A    TRIP    TO    HEBRON.  lOI 

of  her  descendants    have    thereby    entertained 
''angels  unawares." 

Here  was  confirmation  strong  of  the  truth  of 
the  Bible  narrative  of  these  localities.  Any  but 
the  most  skeptical  traveler  must  reach  his  high- 
est mood,  and  find  his  heart  deeply  touched  with 
these  sacred  surroundings  and  associations, 
where — 

'The  memory  sees  more  than  the  eye." 

Another  day  will  tell  of  our  return  to  Bethle- 
hem, where  we  dined  with  the  Greek  Patriarch, 
in  the  Church  of  the  Nativity;  camped  near  Mar 
Saba,  where  banished  monks  will  not  allow 
women  to  enter  their  convent;  tasted  the  water, 
bitter  as  death,  of  the  Dead  Sea;  cooled  our 
burning  heads  in  the  rushing  waters  of  the  Jor- 
dan; tented  at  Jericho,  near  the  Fountain  of 
Elisha,  and,  after  five  days  in  the  saddle,  revisited 
the  Holy  City. 


IV. 

GYPSIES  I  HAVE  SEEN. 

When  I  was  a  child,  tales  of  gypsies  had  a 
peculiar  charm  for  me,  the  fascination  of  the 
unknown  and  fearful;  something  like  the  blood- 
curdling delight  of  ghost  and  robber  stories. 

Those  I  heard  were  usually  of  an  old,  old 
woman,  in  a  red  cloak,  who  had  the  gift  of  the 
evil  eye;  that  is,  she  could,  by  a  certain  glance, 
cast  such  a  spell  that  the  person  on  whom  it  fell 
would  have  nothing  but  bad  fortune  forever 
afterward.  She  could  tell  fortunes  by  looking 
at  the  palm  of  your  hand,  and  loved  nothing  so 
well  as  stealing  little  boys  and  girls. 

Poetry  and  music,  romance  and  fancy  united 
have  pictured  a  many-colored  halo  round  the 
head  of  the  Gypsy  Queen,  the  wild  Bohemian  of 
song.  How  it  vanishes  at  the  first  glance  at 
reality!  Never  were  truth  and  fiction  further 
apart  than  in  the  portraiture  of  this  race. 

The  summer  of  1881  we  spent  on  the  upper 
Bosphorus,  where  the  opening  toward  the  Black 
Sea  stretches  away  like  a  wide,  shoreless  eternity. 

103 


104  GYPSIES  I  HAVE  SEEN. 

One  soft,  bright  afternoon  we  walked  beside  the 
blue  waters  to  a  broad  green  field  in  the  plain  of 
Buyukdere,  where,  centuries  ago,  Godfrey  of 
Bouillon  encamped  on  his  way  to  Palestine.  Of 
the  plane  trees  which  sheltered  the  old  crusader 
and  his  host  seven  giants  remain,  called  the 
Seven  Brothers.  They  are  knotty  and  gnarled, 
tremendous  sycamores,  and  appear  ancient,  as 
though  they  might  have  borne  the  weight  of  the 
flood. 

I  seated  myself  on  one  of  the  twisted  roots,  up- 
heaved through  the  soil,  and  looking  toward  the 
road  which  runs  to  Constantinople,  counted 
thirteen  tents. 

In  this  country  of  soldiers  a  camp  is  the  most 
common  sight,  and  I  had  not  noticed  it  but  for 
the  swarms  of  children  about.  They  were 
ragged,  dirty  little  imps,  in  one  garment,  or  half 
a  garment,  bare-footed  and  bare-headed,  up- 
roarious in  their  laughter  as  they  played,  holding 
hands  in  a  ring  much  as  our  children  do  in  "ring 
around  the  rosy."  They  did  not  look  at  the 
strangers  till  we  came  near,  when  they  broke  and 
fled  Uke  startled  quails,  and  sought  shelter  with- 
in the  tents. 

What  forlorn  old  tents  they  were!  patched 
with  scraps  of  quilts  that  once  were  gay,  pieces 
of  old  sacks  and  bits  of  carpet.    Mangy  and  wolf- 


GYPSIES    I    HAVE    SEEN.  i05 

ish  dogs  (of  the  big  "yaller  dorg"  species)  looked 
from  the  tent  doors,  and  when  the  children  disap- 
peared, out  came  the  mothers,  wrinkled,  weath- 
er-beaten hags,  looking  old  as  the  hills,  who  eyed 
us  with  sharp,  suspicious  glances. 

A  few  men  lazily  smoked  in  the  shade  of  the 
tent.  ''What  manner  of  men  are  these?"  I 
asked.    ''Soldiers,  without  arms  or  uniform." 

"This  is  a  gypsy  camp,"  said  the  guide,  with 
professional  brevity.  And  was  that  the  Queen 
of  the  band,  tira-la-la-a-ing  to  a  wheezy,  rickety 
guitar;  that  withered  witch,  with  sore  eyes  and 
skinny  hands,  her  hair,  in  long,  matted  locks, 
straggling  down  to  her  waist  below  a  dingy, 
purple  hood;  was  that  the  note  of  the  trouba- 
dour strings?  And  that  the  gypsy  chief,  in  filthy 
rags,  sprawling  on  the  ground,  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette?   Where  were  my  visions  and  dreams? 

Nothing  of  aught  imagined  was  there,  except 
the  traditional  black  kettle;  not  as  it  should  be, 
simmering  over  the  fire,  and  sending  up  a  fra- 
grant and  savory  steam,  inviting  to  the  traveler, 
but  a  greasy  abomination  upset,  where  a  gaunt 
and  famished  dog  was  licking  the  earth  for  the 
little  moisture  its  contents  had  left. 

The  gypsies  of  the  Kingdom  of  Turkey  num- 
ber about  two  hundred  thousand  souls. 

Nominally  Moslems,  they  are  outlawed  by  the 


I06  GYPSIES  I   HAVE  SEEN. 

faithful,  excluded  by  them  from  the  mosques, 
and  denied  a  burial-place  in  their  cemeteries. 
But  they  have  certain  rites  and  heathen  supersti- 
tions, handed  down  from  remote  antiquity,  with- 
out written  creeds  or  books.  It  is  not  likely  that 
many  gypsies  in  the  whole  world  can  either  read 
or  write.  The  gypsy  has  no  wish  to  learn,  or  to 
do  anything  but  steal  enough  to  keep  soul  and 
body  together;  for  if  he  accumulated  property,  it 
would  be  a  hindrance  to  his  roving.  These  peo- 
ple are  identical  in  manners  and  habits  wherever 
seen;  as  has  been  well  written,  they  are  a  curious 
mixture  of  the  human  and  the  animal,  having  the 
scent  of  the  dog,  the  cunning  of  the  monkey, 
and  the  form  and  vices,  but  none  of  the  virtues, 
of  mankind. 

Many  suppose  they  come  from  the  lowest 
castes  of  East  India,  as  is  shown  by  their  un- 
speakable filth  and  fondness  for  carrion,  and  were 
driven  out  at  the  great  invasion  of  Timour  Bey. 
Others  maintain  they  are  of  Egyptian  descent, 
whence  the  name.  They  have  the  tricks  and  jug- 
glery of  the  farthest  East,  are  skilled  in  the  mys- 
tery of  snake-charming,  handling  serpents  with 
perfect  safety,  and  seem  to  have  a  sort  of  liking 
for  them,  which  they  never  kill  or  hurt.  It  is 
said  they  have  secret  herbs  gathered  at  a  certain 
time  of  the  moon  on  the  hills  of  the  Bosphorus, 


GYPSIES    I    HAVE    SEEN.  107 

from  which  they  distill  a  draught  which  is  a 
sure  charm  against  snake-bite. 

The  ancients  of  the  tribe  mix  and  prepare  it 
with  great  solemnity,  the  secret  is  handed  down 
from  father  to  son,  and  none  of  them  are  known 
to  suffer  from  the  deadliest  reptiles.  They  cer- 
tainly have  a  Malay  look,  with  that  peculiar  yel- 
low hue  familiar  to  us  in  the  Chinaman,  the 
blackest  eyes,  small  and  piercing  like  the  eyes  of 
mice;  their  hair  is  a  wiry  mane;  their  gait  a 
shuffle  without  any  sort  of  grace.  These  power- 
ful-looking vagabonds  have  no  uniformity  of 
clothing  in  Turkey,  except  the  red  fez  cap;  any 
sort  of  greasy,  ragged,  cast-off  stuff  is  enough 
for  their  ambition.  A  scrap  of  gay  color  on  the 
head  or  a  fragment  of  variegated  sash  round  the 
waist,  baggy  pantaloons,  and  wooden  sandals 
suffice  for  the  happiness  of  the  Chenguin,  be  he 
chief  or  follower  of  the  gang. 

When  you  hear  a  specially  crazy  hand-organ, 
and  the  cry  of  a  doleful  and  abused  monkey  in 
the  streets  of  Constantinople,  you  may  be  pretty 
sure  it  belongs  to  a  gypsy.  Sometimes  a  divis- 
ion of  labor  is  secured  by  one  stalwart  lazybones 
carrying  the  machine,  while  his  partner-drone 
moves  his  muscles  a  little  by  doing  the  grinding. 

I  have  seen  very  many,  but  have  never  been 
able  to  detect  the  scar  above  the  jet-black  eye^ 


Io8  GYPSIES   I   HAVE  SEEN. 

brow,  nor  yet  the  strawberry-mark  on  the  left 
arm. 

During  the  late  war  they  were  pressed  into 
military  service,  but  went  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet,  some  pretending  sickness,  some  insan- 
ity, and  those  who  actually  reached  the  seat  of 
operations  proved  such  cowards  that  it  is  said  the 
officers  were  relieved  when  they  deserted.  In 
many  traits  they  are  like  the  Apaches,  the  in- 
curably wild  Indians  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
but  they  lack  the  fire  and  love  of  war  of  the  red 
race,  which  gains  in  contrast  with  those  worth- 
less nomads  of  the  Orient. 

I  came  to  know  them  at  a  glance  in  the  streets 
of  Stamboul.  The  women  go  in  a  slow,  aimless 
wandering  about  the  city,  as  you  see  Pamba  in 
the  picture.  Their  dress  has  no  uniformity  ex- 
cept in  dirt,  and  I  have  not  seen  one  red  cloak 
among  them.  On  their  flat  sprawling  feet  are 
clumsy  leather  shoes,  a  long,  reddish  skirt,  a  yel- 
low, ragged  sacque  tied  round  the  waist  with  a 
sash  made  of  a  strip  of  "Turkey-red"  cotton,  a 
loose  gray  woolen  hood  with  ends  crossed  under 
the  chin,  and  thrown  back  over  the  shoulders. 
Over  all,  a  long  cotton  cloak  like  an  ulster,  of  no 
particular  color  and  no  sort  of  fit.  You  know 
them  afar  ofT  by  the  basket — not  the  scar  on  their 
arm — and  gridiron  and  shovel  carried  on  the 


GYPSIES    I    HAVE    SEEN.  109 

shoulder.  Pamba  has  no  guitar,  no  castanets, 
no  flying  feet  and  tambourine,  no  memories  of 
marble  halls  and  better  days.  Sometimes  she 
engages  in  a  graceless  dance  under  the  chestnut 
trees  in  the  Turkish  villages,  where  men  smoke 
and  stare,  and  the  hurdy-gurdy  grinds  its  dreary 
rounds;  and  when  very  young  there  is  a  dash 
of  beauty  in  the  bright  eyes  and  white  teeth. 
She  is  a  woman  at  fourteen,  at  thirty  wrinkled 
and  shapeless,  at  forty  a  withered  hag. 

The  elders  of  the  camp  are  old  witches  in  ap- 
pearance; stripped  of  the  fairy  myths  surround- 
ing them,  they  are  hideous  and  repulsive  to  the 
last  degree.  Those  who  have  statistics  regarding 
gypsies  say  their  life  of  exposure,  meager  diet, 
and  scant  comforts  tells  on  them,  even  in  this 
mild  climate,  with  such  effect  that  none,  abso- 
lutely none,  lives  to  old  age. 

They  make  capital  of  their  witch-like  appear- 
ance, and  pretend  to  cast  spells  over  the  passer- 
by, which  will  be  broken  only  by  laying  a  piece 
of  silver  in  the  extended  palm;  and  the  credulity 
of  some  of  the  victims  of  this  superstition  is 
amazing.  I  have  seen  some  women  who  looked 
old  as  the  Pyramids,  and  ugly  as  the  obscene 
Harpies  among  whose  ancient  haunts  they  rove. 

Treacherous,  cowardly,  impossible  to  influ- 
ence, as  was  proved  by  Sultan  Murad  IV.,  who 


no  GYPSIES  I  HAVE  SEEN. 

ordered  them  driven  to  the  Balkans  and  forced 
to  Hve  a  regular  life.  But  they  broke  through 
the  imperial  decree,  and  scattered  in  every  direc- 
tion, regardless  of  the  authority  they  have  defied 
from  the  beginning;  no  more  to  them  than  the 
wind  which  blows  their  tattered  tents.  If  they 
are  despised  and  outcast  from  one  end  to  the 
other  of  the  earth,  it  is  the  just  desert  of  the  low- 
est of  fallen  human  creatures,  on  whom  all  efforts 
at  uplifting  are  but  as  wine  that  is  poured  on  the 
ground. 

I  inquired  about  the  baby-stealing,  feeling  as- 
sured that  a  legend  so  widespread  must  have 
some  grains  of  truth  in  it,  and  was  told  that 
gypsy  women  steal  them  to  beg  with,  as  they  are 
too  careful  of  their  own  children  to  expose  them 
as  they  do  those  of  strangers.  They  smear  the 
stolen  ones  with  walnut-juice,  as  a  disguise,  and 
along  the  streets  of  Constantinople  the  poor 
babies  lie  on  the  stones,  half-naked,  moaning 
and  wailing  in  a  weak  way  that  is  heart-breaking 
to  hear.  The  snow  and  the  rain  fall  on  their 
ghastly  faces;  the  hot  sun  burns  them,  freezing 
winds  from  the  sea  chill  them  like  frost,  and  the 
pretended  mother  stretches  out  her  hand,  dyed 
with  henna  to  a  reddish-brown  tint,  and  takes  the 
piastres  which  the  child's  wretched  wailing  ex- 
torts. 


GYPSIES    I    HAVE    SEEN.  Ill 

A  lady  from  Thrace  told  me  of  a  peasant,  a 
gardener's  wife,  who  went  out  one  day  to  gather 
lavender  for  the  market.  She  left  her  little  girl, 
eight  months  old,  playing  with  a  box  of  bright 
stones  on  the  floor  of  the  hut.  Returning  from 
the  garden  with  the  sweet  herbs,  she  found  the 
house  empty;  the  poor  playthings  were  scattered 
in  the  center  of  the  room,  but  the  little  Janina, 
who  was  the  light  and  life  of  her  life,  was  miss- 
ing. She  knew  instantly  what  it  meant,  and  the 
tiger-blood  in  every  mother  robbed  of  her  child 
was  up.  She  could  run  and  not  be  weary,  she 
could  walk  and  not  faint,  she  would  find  her 
darling.  Night  was  coming  fast,  no  human  habi- 
tation or  help  of  man  was  in  sight,  and  only  a 
few  miles  away  was  the  great  Servian  forest. 

That  awful  forest,  from  the  forgotten  ages  the 
haunt  of  brigands  and  gypsies,  where  the  tall 
oaks  make  dusk  at  noonday  and  twilight  is  black 
as  midnight.  In  its  depths  every  crime  is  hidden, 
and  outrage  and  murder  are  the  sentinels  on 
guard  at  its  entrance,  keeping  the  world  at  bay. 
Like  a  revelation  the  idea  came  that  whoever 
had  carried  off  the  child  would  make  for  the 
forest.  Once  within  its  black  shadows,  good-by 
to  baby;  hope  never  enters  there. 

Along  the  bare,  stony  road  she  ran  with 
bruised  feet,  past  a  clump  of  holly  trees  growing 


112  GYPSIES  I  HAVE  SEEN. 

in  a  little  thicket,  on,  on,  with  the  courage  of 
love  and  faith,  when  behind  her  she  heard  a 
singular  cry,  like,  yet  unlike,  her  own  Janina's 
prattle.  Her  listening  heart  stood  still,  and 
again  it  came  from  the  holly  bushes, — a  choking 
sound.  It  must  be,  it  was  her  lost  one.  She 
turned  back,  left  the  road  and  stumbled  over  a 
familiar  gypsy  basket  half  full  of  crusts  and 
refuse  vegetables.  A  minute  more,  and,  guided 
by  the  sound,  she  was  within  the  center  of  the 
leafy  copse,  where  a  piece  of  black  tent-cloth 
was  fashioned  into  a  rude  shelter. 

There  was  a  woman  seated  on  the  ground, 
holding  Baby  Janina  across  her  lap  and  tickling 
its  feet, — the  dimpled  feet  which  she  had  kissed 
a  thousand  times.  That  is  the  gypsy  trick  to 
make  the  stolen  child's  voice  unnatural  if  it  tries 
to  cry.  Themother  sprang  upon  her;  the  gypsy 
saw  she  was  beaten;  silent  and  dogged  she 
handed  up  the  baby,  and  the  mother  sped  home 
through  the  darkness,  the  little  dove  cooing  in 
her  bosom. 

There  was  no  pursuit  or  attempt  at  punish- 
ment, not  even  an  inquiry  about  the  child- 
stealer.  Every  one  knew  it  was  only  a  gypsy, 
and  "that's  a  way  they  have." 


V. 


HOUSEKEEPING  IN  TURKEY. 

The  people  of  Turkey  comprise  so  many  races 
quite  unlike  each  other  that  housekeeping  is  un- 
equal and  varied  according  to  means  and  nation- 
ality. But  all  is  there — the  splendor  of  the 
Padisha,  the  squalor  of  the  hamal  whose  hut  has 
only  earth  for  rest  and  rafters  open  to  the  sky  for 
shelter. 

The  houses  of  the  well-to-do  are  built  on  the 
same  general  plan — spacious,  rambling,  with 
much  waste  room.  A  middle  hall  divides  the 
haramlik,  or  apartments  for  women,  from  the 
salamlik,  or  rooms  for  men.  The  former  is  the 
larger  and  better  arranged  portion. 

In  some  old  buildings  is  still  to  be  seen  carved 
woodwork  of  arabesque  patterns  on  ceiling  and 
side  walls,  which  has  now  passed  out  of  fashion, 
possibly  because  it  affords  secure  harbors  for 
vermin. 

The  wooden  floors  are  overlaid  with  rugs,  and 
the  furnishing  is  scant  and  meager  to  Western 

eyes.    Multiplied  windows  are  prettily  hung  with 
lis 


114  HOUSEKEEPING   IN   TURKEY. 

gauzy  curtains  that  hide  dreary  iron  lattices 
through  which  eyes,  outside  or  in,  must  not  peer. 

A  wide,  low  divan,  made  gay  with  Broussa  silk 
or  French  chintz,  runs  round  every  room  against 
the  wall;  and  as  bedsteads  are  unknown,  it  is 
spread  with  mattresses  and  quilts  at  night,  mak- 
ing a  comfortable  bed.  All  bedding  is  rolled 
up  and  kept  in  presses  through  the  day.  Square 
cushions  are  tossed  about  and  piled  away  in 
corners;  and  on  a  sofa  the  hanoum,  or  wife, — 
few  Turks  have  more  than  one, — sits  in  the  place 
of  honor  among  draperies  and  soft  cushions. 

Small  tables  of  cedar  and  pearl  stand  here  and 
there,  holding  perhaps  an  ash  tray,  a  few  cups  or 
a  bunch  of  flowers;  but  there  are  no  pretty  trifles 
to  adorn  the  rooms — no  vases,  no  pictures  on  the 
walls.  These  lead  to  idolatry,  and  are  forbidden 
by  the  prophet.  And  though  the  Mohammedans 
possess  curios  that  would  delight  an  American 
heart, — china,  tapestries,  armor,  etc., — they  are 
kept  packed  away  in  boxes  and  rarely  exhibited. 
I  never  understood  the  reason  why. 

There  is  no  one  place  for  eating,  and  dinner 
may  be  served  wherever  caprice  or  convenience 
orders  it;  sometimes  overlooking  the  street  or  in 
the  walled  gardem.  The  party  sit  cross-legged 
on  cushions  round  one  of  the  low  tables,  to 


HOUSEKEEPING    IN    TURKEY.  II5 

which  dishes  in  courses  are  brought  on  copper 
trays. 

First,  servants  pour  water  over  the  ready 
hands,  hold  basins  to  catch  it,  and  napkins  for 
drying  them  and  for  use  during  the  meal. 

Thick  soup  begins  the  feast.  The  lady  of 
highest  rank  dips  her  spoon  in  it,  and  invites  the 
next  below  her  to  follow.  The  piece  de  resist- 
ance is  pilaf,  a  mixture  of  stewxd  rice  and  game. 
Bits  of  meat,  cut  in  the  kitchen  and  boiled  with 
vegetables,  come  on  in  succession. 

The  stranger  finds  it  impossible  to  reach  the 
deft  and  skillful  neatness  with  which  the  Oriental 
manages  a  repast  without  knife  or  fork. 

Wine  is  never  seen.  Sweets  come  between  the 
courses  and  after  dinner;  in  fact  these,  with 
cigarettes,  are  two  luxuries  always  in  order,  at 
once  food  and  recreation. 

Nor  is  there  any  special  place  for  making  a 
toilet.  A  maid  brings  a  round  hand-mirror,  and 
holds  it  while  a  second  one  arranges  my  lady's 
hair,  brushing  it  well  and  plaiting  it  in  many 
strands.  If  a  grande  toilette  is  contemplated, 
she  pencils  brows  and  eyelids,  and  thickly  lays 
on  white  and  pink  "face  painting"  before  the 
silken  robe  is  unfolded  and  Cinderella  slippers 
adjusted  to  the  small  feet. 


Il6  HOUSEKEEPING  IN   TURKEY. 

The  harem  is  the  center  of  the  world  to  the 
home-keeping  Turk,  who  never  emigrates  nor 
wishes  to  travel  beyond  hearing  of  the  muezzin's 
call  to  prayer.  Eastern  women  do  not  care  for 
privacy,  and  all  of  one  household  gather  there 
with  the  children.  In  patriarchal  fashion,  several 
generations  abide  under  one  roof. 

Except  in  early  youth  the  sexes  do  not  min- 
gle; and  one  man  only  enters  the  "abode  of 
felicity."  To  please  him  is  the  study  and  pleasure 
of  the  inmates  of  the  harem;  and  if  there  is  truth 
in  appearance,  peace  and  content  reign  there 
supreme. 

When  slippers  before  the  door  proclaim  a  visi- 
tor within,  even  the  master  of  the  house  may  not 
enter  his  wife's  room. 

It  is  the  law  or  custom,  rigid  and  binding  as 
any  law,  that  men  must  work  and  women  must 
not.  The  slave  girl  seems  to  do  little  but  em- 
broider, and  hold  herself  ready  for  the  trifling 
service  of  her  mistress.  Abundant  space,  sun- 
shine and  lolling  ease  are  the  requirements  of 
the  harem. 

The  bath  is  a  suite  of  three  rooms.  The  first 
one  is  made  of  marble  or  other  stone,  lighted 
from  above,  and  very  warm  with  furnace  heat. 
Hot  and  cold  water  at  pleasure  are  turned  into 


HOUSEKEEPING    IN    TURKEY.  H? 

reservoirs,  where  rubbing  and  soaking  are  pro- 
longed indefinitely. 

The  second  apartment  contains  lounges  and 
sofas  for  rest  in  the  fatigues  of  the  bath. 

In  the  third  or  outer  chamber  are  soft  couches 
and  downy  wraps,  where  there  is  long  repose; 
where  preserves  and  sherbet  may  be  served,  and 
much  time  is  spent. 

Even  the  poorest  houses  have  some  sort  of 
bath-room,  where  the  women  of  the  household 
gossip  and  smoke  away  their  mornings,  undis- 
turbed by  letter-writing  or  newspapers,  secure 
from  the  world's  turmoils,  as  though  grief  and 
care  were  far  dwellers  in  remote  regions  beyond 
the  seas. 

The  house  itself  is  of  minor  importance  in  the 
land  of  the  fig-tree,  where  nine  months  of  the 
year  one  may  live  in  rose-gardens  or  sun-bright 
kiosks  made  of  lattices  and  trailing  vines.  And 
as  in  all  hot  countries  building  is  for  the  summer, 
and  winter  is  ignored;  the  houses  are  poorly 
heated,  and  when  fountains  are  rimmed  with  ice, 
and  racking  winds  blow,  it  is  vain  to  attempt 
to  keep  warm  over  a  handful  of  coals  or  by  hud- 
dling in  a  fur  blanket. 

When  cold  days  come,  in  rooms  where  there  is 
much  luxury   there  is  little  comfort;    and  in 


Il8  HOUSEKEEPING   IN   TURKEY. 

palaces  with  lofty  ceilings  and  mosaic  floors  one 
sighs  and  shivers,  remembering  warm  old  base- 
burners  and  open  grates  glowing  with  anthracite. 
A  large  mangal  or  brazier  of  burnished  metal 
— often  an  elegant  ornament — is  in  general  use 
as  a  heater.  Partly  filled  with  wood  ashes  and 
burning  charcoal,  it  still  is  a  scant  contrivance  in 
a  frosty  dayi 

There  is  a  story  told  of  a  diplomat  who,  after 
presentation  to  the  Sultan,  while  gracefully  re- 
tiring from  the  august  presence,  backed  into  a 
brazier  of  red-hot  coals,  and  losing  his  balance 
and  self-possession  together,  sat  down  in  it. 

The  upsetting  of  mangals  is  a  cause  of  fre- 
quent fires  in  Stamboul,  where  buildings  are 
mainly  of  wood,  and  cheaply  constructed.  Every- 
one expects  to  be  burnt  out  at  least  once  in  a 
lifetime. 

For  supplying  the  table  there  is  a  monthly 
allowance  made  to  a  steward,  who  goes  to  mar- 
ket, attends  to  details  and  usually  is  honest  and 
capable. 

The  kitchen  is  a  roomy  building  detached  from 
the  mansion,  and  is  of  stone,  including  the  floors. 
A  range,  heated  by  charcoal,  has  grates  on  the 
top,  where  roasts  are  laid  and  boiling  and  stew- 
ing go  on. 


HOUSEKEEPING    IN    TURKEY.  HQ 

There  are  few  utensils  compared  with  ours, 
but  plenty  of  hand-work  instead  of  patent  ma- 
chines; copper  and  brass  platters  and  boilers  are 
shining  bright,  and  cleanliness  without  order 
prevails. 

Nothing  is  wasted.  If  the  cook  is  a  female, 
supplies  are  passed  through  a  revolving  door  by 
the  purveyor,  so  that  her  face,  usually  old  and 
ugly,  often  jet  black,  may  not  be  seen  by  mortal 
man. 

Do  not  attempt  housekeeping  unless  you  have 
the  gift  of  tongues.  Your  cook  may  come  from 
any  country  between  the  White  Nile  and  the 
Danube.  Your  maid  may  be  Armenian,  Bul- 
garian, Maltese;  your  porter  from  Herzegovina; 
and  the  various  dealers  of  curious  things,  native 
Turks  or  peddlers,  from  regions  beyond  the 
Caucasus.  How  are  you  to  treat  with  them  ex- 
cept in  pantomime? 

It  is  amazing  to  see  the  quickness  with  which 
they  catch,  without  a  word  spoken,  your  mean- 
ing, especially  when  you  are  paying  four  times 
the  actual  worth  of  the  article  offered  for  sale. 
Poultry  and  vegetables  are  cheap,  fruit  abundant, 
strawberries  delicious — ah,  those  strawberries! 
I  taste  them  yet.  But  do  not  look  for  good 
butter  in  Constantinople,  nor  sigh  for  Jersey 
cream.    They  are  not  to  be  had. 


120       houseke:eping  in  turkey. 

Instead  of  these  daily  comforts,  be  satisfied 
with  grapes  Hke  those  of  Eshcol,  long,  yellow 
melons  equal  to  our  best  cantaloupes,  and  nut- 
megs and  a  drink  made  of  pomegranate-juice 
cooled  with  snow  from  the  mountains  overlook- 
ing the  Marmora. 

There  seems  none  so  poor  but  he  may  have  a 
servant.  Apropos,  a  story  is  told  by  one  of  our 
missionaries  of  a  traveler  to  Stamboul  among 
the  one  hundred  thousand  daily  crossing  Galata 
Bridge.  It  is  the  place  where  beggars  most  do 
congregate,  and  the  stranger  dropped  a  gold 
piece  into  the  hand  of  a  wretched  mendicant, 
instead  of  the  small  copper  coin  he  intended  for 
alms. 

The  gentleman  soon  discovered  his  mistake, 
and  after  business  hours  were  ended — ^begging  is 
a  genteel  profession  in  the  East — he  inquired  the 
way,  and  with  the  help  of  a  native  found  the 
dreary  lodging  of  the  wretched  man  in  tatters, 

A  knock  at  the  door  brought  a  servant  to 
open  it.  After  a  few  moments  the  polite 
Oriental  appeared,  shorn  of  his  rags,  in  loose, 
flowing  gown  and  slippers.  The  blunder  was  ex- 
plained, the  suave  pauper  accepted  the  copper 
piece,  returned  the  gold  lira  and,  apparently  sat- 
isfied, courteously  salaamed  his  visitor  away. 


HOUSEKEEPING   IN   TURKEY.  121 

To  return  to  the  harem.  In  the  middle  hall, 
before  the  forbidden  door,  is  a  servant  ready  to 
make  coffee  for  the  visitor. 

Turkish  coffee  is  considered  the  finest  in  the 
world.  The  fragrant  berry  is  roasted  golden 
brown,  and  pounded  in  a  mortar  till  fine  as 
snuff,  a  powder  without  grain.  A  large  table- 
spoonful,  and  several  lumps  of  sugar,  with  a  pint 
cup  full  of  cold  water  are  placed  in  a  brass  pot 
with  a  long  handle.  Set  on  burning  charcoal,  it 
is  allowed  to  boil  to  the  top  three  times,  removed 
and  left  to  stand  a  few  moments.  Then  it  is 
poured  into  tiny  cups  resting  in  filigree  stands, 
which  at  the  palace  are  encrusted  with  diamonds. 

Hotels  are  usually  kept  by  Greeks.  In  almost 
any  of  the  large  cities  you  may  order  an  English, 
French  or  Turkish  dinner,  and  each  will  be  ex- 
cellent in  its  own  way. 

The  old  names  that  can  never  die  come  to  base 
uses  here.  Demosthenes  silently  blacks  your 
boots;  Themistocles  stands  behind  your  chair  at 
table;  and  Leonidas  holds  the  narrow  pass  be- 
tween the  kitchen  and  dining-room.  Worse 
than  this,  Euphrosyne,  with  her  bang  in  little 
tins,  brings  your  brass  pitcher  of  hot  water,  and 
Aglaia  and  Thalia  impose  their  cheap  broideries 
and  counterfeit  coins  on  the  unsuspecting  tour- 
ist. 


122  HOUSEKEEPING   IN   TURKEY, 

Among  them  sometimes  appear  pure  Attic 
features — faces  like  those  sculptors  must  see  in 
their  dreams. 

The  young  girls  go  bareheaded,  and  their 
knotted  hair  and  fillet  of  shining  cord  give  the 
final  suggestion  of  the  models  sought  for  the 
ancient  marbles.  Such  picturesque  heads  I  have 
never  seen  where  there  is  no  Greek  blood. 


VI. 


AT  BETHLEHEM. 

The  long,  gray  hill  up  which  Joseph  and  Mary 
toiled  because  there  was  no  room  for  them  in 
the  inn,  is  bare  and  burnt  now,  and  the  rocky 
road  is  white  with  chalky  dust.  That  first  Christ- 
mas eve  when  the  Virgin  Mother  looked  back 
at  the  Holy  City,  she  saw  no  Moslem  flag  float- 
ing over  Moriah,  but  the  glory  of  the  Temple,  a 
mass  of  glittering  terraces,  shining  like  silver,  its 
roof  planted  with  spear  heads  of  solid  gold. 

Leaving  the  Joppa  Gate,  she  passed  the  tomb 
of  Rachel,  the  first  love  for  whom  Jacob  served 
seven  years,  and  they  seemed  to  him  but  a  few 
days  for  the  love  he  had  to  her.  Instead  of  the 
curse  of  barrenness  and  desolation  she  could, 
from  the  old  House  of  Bread,  look  on  smiling 
vineyards  and  barley  fields  in  the  valley  where 
Ruth  came  gleaning  in  the  early  days  of  Israel. 
The  waters  of  a  pretty  brook  go  softly  through 
it  yet — a  scene  fair  to  the  eye,  pleasant  to  mem- 
ory. It  is  the  field  of  the  Shepherds,  where 
angel  songs  were  heard  but  once  on  earth.    She 

123 


124  AT   BETHLEHEM. 

saw,  as  we  did,  the  purple  wall  of  Moab,  and  the 
peak  where  the  greatest  of  Prophets  went  up  to 
die,  and  the  shining,  steel-blue  sea  which  forever 
buries  the  dead  cities  of  the  plain.  Probably  the 
wayfarers  drank  of  the  spring  of  the  Magi,  soon 
to  mirror  a  miraculous  star — the  spring  for 
which  her  ancestor  David  longed.  "O  that  one 
would  give  me  to  drink  of  the  well  that  is  at 
Bethlehem  by  the  gate."  Perhaps  in  prophetic 
vision  she  saw  herself  on  this  road  fleeing  by 
night  in  obedience  to  the  heavenly  warning,  and 
bearing  in  her  bosom  the  Light  of  the  World, 
the  future  Judge  of  the  quick  and  the  dead. 
More  than  a  thousand  years  the  Kahn,  most 
noted  in  Judea,  was  on  the  rocky  ridge  that  has 
never  changed  its  name.  It  was  the  first  camp 
after  leaving  Mt.  Zion  and  first  on  the  route  to 
Egypt. 

No  scoffer  doubts  that  the  Church  of  the  Na- 
tivity, a  noble  basilica  built  by  the  Empress  He- 
lena, and  the  most  ancient  pile  of  the  Christian 
world,  is  the  same  one  now  covering  the  sacred 
grotto.  Surrounded  by  three  convents — Greek, 
Latin  and  Armenian — it  stands  above  a  cave 
hewn  from  the  living  rock;  remove  the  roof  and 
marble  front  and  there  remains  one  of  the  in- 
numerable caves  of  Palestine.  These  are  tran- 
sient dwelling  places  for  travelers  and  refugees. 


AT    BETHLEHEM.  125 

often  sheltering  lunatics  and  lepers,  and  afford- 
ing rendezvous  for  outlaws,  as  when  David  fled 
from  the  wrath  of  Saul. 

Follow  your  guide  through  filthy,  narrow 
streets  swarming  with  beggars;  by  massive  walls, 
seemingly  old  as  the  world;  through  dark  aisles 
and  long  galleries,  taper  in  hand.  At  last  enter 
a  cavern,  hung  with  velvet  and  embroideries  and 
lighted  by  everburning  lanterns  of  silver  and 
gold,  the  gifts  of  Emperors  and  Kings.  Pause 
before  an  altar  loaded  with  precious  offerings. 
Beside  it  is  a  granite  slab  covering  a  bench  left 
in  the  first  excavation  and  hollowed  like  a 
trough — the  familiar  manger  of  Syria,  often  used 
as  a  baby's  bed,  softened  only  with  a  blanket  of 
sheepskins  or  shawls. 

This  is  defended  by  a  marble  slab  renewed 
several  times,  being  kissed  away  by  reverent  pil- 
grims constantly  coming  and  going — men  and 
women  who  for  one  moment  still  their  restless 
hearts  to  quiet  beating,  and  in  the  calm  starlight 
of  Bethlehem  forget  the  fever  and  fret  we  call 
living. 

A  few  feet  this  way  or  that  make  no  difference, 
and  somewhere  very  near  us,  the  Wise  Men — 
never  so  wisely  as  then — knelt  in  adoration. 
The  shadowy  silence,  the  subdued  lights,  the 
smell  of  incense,  start  deep  and  singular  feeling, 


126  AT   BETHLEHEM. 

bringing  a  sense  of  unreality.  We  were  as  they 
who  dream  while  standing  beside  the  silver  star 
that  marks  the  place  where  the  Savior  lay. 
Whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  I  cannot 
tell. 

It  would  hardly  have  been  a  surprise  had 
cherub  faces  illumined  the  gloom  and  the  rust- 
ling of  wings  mingled  with  murmurs  of  wor- 
shipers gliding  to  and  fro  like  mystic  spirits. 

So  long  as  the  earth  remains  the  hills  of  Judea 
cannot  be  removed,  and  after  two  thousand 
years  Bethlehem  is  much  the  same  as  when  the 
Messiah  came  and  the  centuries  began. 

Around  this  center  illustrious  warriors  have 
fought — Saul  and  Gideon,  Tancred  and  Saladin, 
kings  of  Persia,  Egypt,  Rome.  Every  step  has 
been  trodden  by  chiefs,  prophets,  heroes,  and 
rung  with  the  clash  of  steel  and  glistened  with 
flaming  banners.  None  who  went  before  or  came 
after  was  like  the  Son  of  Mary,  long  foretold  and 
then,  in  some  vague,  indefinite  way,  expected  by 
every  race  and  in  every  nation. 

While  the  Roman  world  was  all  at  peace,  and 
shepherds  kept  watch  over  their  flocks  by  night. 
Heaven  bent  low  and  the  Great  Love  came  to 
His  own.  Not  in  anguish  but  In  rapture  did 
Holy  Mary  bring  us  the  promised  Redemption. 
She  saw  the  mystical  radiance,  an  out-glancing 


AT    BETHLEHEM.  127 

of  the  All-Seeing  Eye,  the  light  beyond  every 
light;  and  the  voice  which  made  the  shepherds 
sore  afraid  made  her  soul  leap  for  joy.  The 
chanting  of  the  multitude  of  the  heavenly  host 
did  not  startle  her.  Eager  watchers  who  live  in 
the  air  and  neither  slumber  nor  sleep  ministered 
to  her,  and  in  the  stable,  warm  with  fragrant  hay 
and  breath  of  kine,  she  laid  the  sweet  Baby 
down.  No  seraph  half  so  fair.  He  was  from  the 
beginning  the  One  altogether  lovely.  Beautiful 
in  the  arms  of  His  mother,  beautiful  in  the 
Temple,  beautiful  on  the  cross,  and  beautiful  in 
the  sepulcher. 


VIL 

i 

IN  THE  TOWER   OF   MANY   STORIES. 

The  Little  Princes. 

London  Tower  is  the  name  given  to  an  im- 
mense mass  of  buildings  on  the  Thames,  east  of 
the  city,  and  made  strong  enough  to  last  ages 
on  ages.  Ceilings,  walls,  floors  are  of  stone  and 
its  mighty  foundations,  said  to  have  been  laid 
by  Julius  Caesar,  look  as  though  they  would 
stand  as  long  as  the  world  endures. 

Any  attempted  description  would  be  disap- 
pointing; the  record  of  captives  held  there  in 
the  last  eight  hundred  years  would  fill  many 
volumes.  Under  the  rule  of  despots,  high- 
minded  women,  patriots,  Jews,  heroes,  exiled 
nobles,  Christians  condemned  for  heresy,  have 
there  languished  in  rooms  foul  and  damp  as 
neglected  cellars.  It  has  underground  dungeons 
and  gloomy  cells  scratched  with  names  of  poor 
prisoners  on  walls  that  have  heard,  when  noth- 
ing else  could  hear,  their  groans  and  sig'hs. 
There  are  torture  rooms  with  thumbscrews  and 
the  rack,  axes  which  have  been  wet  with  brave 

139 


I30       THE  TOWER   OF  MANY   STORIES. 

men*s  blood,  and  the  block  of  wood  where  fair 
young  heads  have  lain  to  be  chopped  ofif  be- 
cause they  were  in  the  way  of  some  other  head 
that  wore  a  crown.  The  keepers  show  horrible 
tools  made  to  grind  and  twist  men's  bones,  to 
burn  their  eyes  out  and  tear  their  ears  to  pieces. 
Under  the  floor  of  the  Chapel  moulder  the  bodies 
of  the  murdered,  and  we  can  almost  believe  it 
true  that  strange  voices  are  yet  heard  from  some- 
thing out  of  sight  and  a  long  way  off,  whisper- 
ing in  the  language  of  the  dead. 

There  was  no  breath  to  stir  the  old  shadows, 
no  voice  nor  hearing,  only  a  stillness,  solemn 
past  telling,  as  we  trod  the  pavement  of  the  great 
historic  prison. 

In  this  scene  of  blackest  crimes  nothing  re- 
membered is  half  so  sorrowful  as  the  murder  of 
the  two  Princes  who  were  sent  to  the  Tower  by 
their  uncle,  Richard  III.,  King  of  England.  You 
have  heard  it,  for  it  is  an  old  tale  and  often  told. 
He  is  usually  called  the  Hunchback;  some  say 
he  was  not  deformed,  except  in  having  a  very 
short  neck  and  one  shoulder  higher  than  the 
other.  He  was  lame,  but  this  defect  was  soon 
forgotten  in  the  beauty  of  his  face.  He  had 
pale  olive  skin,  delicate  features,  smooth  fore- 
head, and  proud  Hps  quick  to  express  the  feel- 
ing which  shone  in  his  deep  black  eyes.     His 


THE  LITTLE  PRINCES.  131 

will  was  law,  and  he  sprang  on  his  enemies  like 
the  tiger  on  its  prey  if  they  were  between  him 
and  his  aims. 

In  the  first  year  of  his  reign  he  cleared  away 
all  who  were  suspected  of  plots,  till  no  heirs  to 
the  throne  were  left  except  his  two  nephews,  sons 
of  Edward  IV.  The  wicked  heart  of  the  Hunch- 
back was  moved  to  one  more  crime;  then,  he 
believed,  the  crown  of  England  would  be  se- 
cured. They  were  graceful  boys  of  eight  and 
twelve  years,  with  clear  bright  eyes,  rosy  cheeks, 
long  flowing  hair  like  threads  of  gold,  and  the 
courteous  manner  early  taught  to  those  who 
expect  to  rule  a  great  nation. 

Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  stolen  while  on 
a  journey;  he  was  the  elder;  and  Richard,  Duke 
of  York,  the  second  son  of  the  late  King,  was 
demanded  of  his  mother,  the  widowed  Queen  of 
Edward  IV.  She  was  a  high-born  lady,  famous 
for  beauty  when  chosen  from  among  the  many 
who  longed  to  sit  on  the  throne.  She  was  with- 
out power  to  resist,  and  how  she  begged  the 
brutal  Richard  to  be  allowed  to  keep  her  young- 
est darling  let  other  mothers  tell. 

The  little  fellows  were  lodged  in  the  Garden 
Tower,  so  called  from  its  opening  into  pleasure- 
grounds  with  a  terraced  walk,  which  in  sunny 
days  gave  to  view  the  river  and  bridge.     It  was 


132       THE  TOWER   OF  MANY  STORIES. 

the  cheerfulest  room  in  the  doleful  pile,  and  was 
lighted  on  both  sides,  so  the  captives  could 
watch  what  stir  there  was  in  the  inner  wards,  and 
the  shipping  along  the  wharf  and  on  the  Thames. 
It  had  a  separate  entrance  to  the  promenade, 
where  in  fine  weather  they  had  leave  to  run  and 
play,  chasing  each  other  into  forgetfulness,  if 
they  knew,  that  they  were  doomed  never  to 
leave  their  prison-house  alive. 

But  Richard  could  not  feel  at  ease  while  his 
nephews  lived.  So  one  day  Sir  James  Tyrrel, 
Master  of  Horse,  *'a  trusty  knight,"  brought  an 
order  under  the  royal  seal  that  Brackenbury,  the 
Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  should  for  one  night 
give  up  the  keys  and  absent  himself  from  his 
office.  Brackenbury  had  already  refused  to  make 
away  with  the  Princes.  The  tale  runs  that  Tyrrel 
was  much  agitated  in  mind  while  riding  out  with 
two  men — professional  murderers — by  name 
John  Dighton  and  Miles  Forrest.  They,  thought 
their  master,  are  not  weak  like  Brackenbury,  and 
will  not  mind  getting  these  brats  out  of  the  way 
any  more  than  wringing  the  necks  of  a  couple  of 
house  sparrows;  they  will  never  blench  nor  quiver 
even  at  sight  of  the  blood  of  the  Lord's  anointed. 

The  keeper  of  the  keys  feared  and  hated  the 
King,  but  dared  not  disobey  him.  He  gave  up 
his  place  and  trust  for  the  time  ordered. 


THE   LITTLE   PRINCES.  133 

The  butchers  rode  across  the  country,  pleasant 
in  the  rich  fulness  of  summer,  with  its  avenues  of 
trees,  scents  of  flowers  and  songs  of  birds  under 
the  free  blue  sky.  England  is  the  land  of  stately 
homes  and  many  dear  delights;  not  the  least  of 
them  is  liberty.  When  night  fell  after  the  long 
twilight,  they  crept  around  the  winding  stairs 
and  through  black  corridors  lighted  only  by  the 
lanterns  they  carried.  The  floors  gave  back  no 
sound  while  the  keys  harshly  grated  in  the  rusty 
locks.  It  was  a  hot  night  in  August,  1483.  The 
moon  shone  through  the  barred  windows,  mak- 
ing a  checkered  light  on  the  floor,  and  when  the 
death  men  entered  the  chamber  they  paused 
awhile  before  the  living  picture  there,  the  fairest 
under  all  the  wide  curtains  of  darkness. 

Youth  seems  younger  and  loveliness  lovelier 
in  the  helpless  hours  of  sleep.  The  Princes  lay  in 
the  sweet  slumber  of  healthful  childhood,  sinless 
and  confiding,  nestled  close  in  each  other's  arms. 
To  kill  them  was  like  sending  spirits  ready  for 
Heaven  home  too  soon.  Some  pretty  belong- 
ings, toys  and  playthings  given  by  their  mother, 
were  scattered  about,  and  a  book  of  prayers, 
open  on  a  table  at  the  bed's  head,  almost  changed 
the'  mind  of  the  guilty  wretches. 

But  they  did  not  linger;  the  sleepers  made 
swift  passage  to  the  dreamless  sleep  which  has 


134       THE  TOWER   OF   MANY   STORIES. 

no  waking,  smothered  with  the  pillows  of  their 
own  bed.  If  there  was  moan  or  outcry  the 
Tower  walls  were  thick,  and  in  the  midnight 
hush  only  the  listening  angels  on  airy  wings 
might  hear. 

Singers  have  sung  the  woful  story,  and  artists 
have  painted  the  piteous  scene.  The  great 
poet's  touch  brings  it  before  our  eyes.  The 
hardened  villains  melted  into  tenderness  and 
mild  compassion  when  they  reported  to  their 
master: 

"  *0  thus,'  quoth  Dighton,  'lay  the  gentle  babes.' 
'Thus,  thus,'  quoth  Forrest,  'girdling  one  another 
Within  their  alabaster,  innocent  arriis; 
Their  lips  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk, 
Which  in  their  summer  beauty,  kissed  each  other.'  " 

By  a  private  stairway  the  trusty  Tyrrel  slipped 
in  from  the  gate,  where  he  waited  impatiently, 
felt  their  pulses  to  be  certain  there  was  no  life 
left,  and  aought  the  Tower  priest  to  make  him 
help  in  hiding  the  devilish  deed.  They  carried 
the  warm  bodies  down.  Oh,  what  a  sight  it 
was!  the  soft  limbs  not  yet  stiffened  for  the 
grave,  the  delicate  hands  dragging  the  steps. 
Without  cofifin,  shroud,  or  winding-sheet,  with 
neither  hymn  nor  prayer,  they  were  thrown  into 
a  hole  dug  by  the  wall.  Rapidly  the  grave  was 
filled  with  loose  soil  and  stones  from  scattered 


THE   LITTLE   PRINCES.  135 

building-material  left  lying  in  heaps  some 
months  before;  then  the  pit  was  smoothed  till 
there  was  no  sign  of  disturbance  or  violence, 
silence  settled  over  all,  and  the  tragedy  seemed 
ended  forever. 

'Trusty"  Tyrrel  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
in  the  dewy  daybreak  along  green  lanes  and 
blossoming  hedges  to  the  palace.  He  was  cruel 
as  a  blood-hound,  yet  tears  ran  down  his  face  like 
rain  when  he  described  to  the  satisfied  monarch 
how  the  ''gentle  babes,"  his  brother's  sons,  would 
trouble  the  kingdom  no  more. 

Richard  had  been  crowned  with  great  pomp, 
feasting,  and  shouting.  He  sat  on  a  marble  seat 
in  Westminster  Hall,  with  a  nobleman  on  each 
side,  and  told  the  crowd  assembled  there  he 
meant  to  be  just  and  maintain  the  laws  and  re- 
spect the  rights  of  his  people.  But  this  was  mere 
talk.  The  reign  begun  in  murder  continued  the 
same  way.  His  spies  learned  that  titled  sub- 
jects drank  healths  in  private  to  the  Princes  in 
the  Tower,  and  he  thought  best  to  announce  the 
truth,  though  he  had  intended  to  keep  their  fate 
a  secret.  Besides,  Uncle  Richard's  sleep  was 
broken  by  bad  dreams  come  of  the  hideous  sin. 
The  crown  of  his  nephew  did  not  rest  easy  on  his 
head,  bloody  fingers  pulled  at  it;  the  lights 
burned  blue  at  midnight;  strange  calls,  as  from 


136       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

desolate  shores,  answered  each  other  across  his 
bed;  he  heard  muffled  groans,  and  ghosts  that 
would  not  down  sat  heavy  on  his  soul.  Eyes 
starting  from  their  sockets  glared  at  him;  vis- 
ions of  baby  throats  purple  with  strangling  and 
pale  faces  bedabbled  with  blood  haunted  the  pil- 
low .of  the  last  Plantagenet. 

He  woke  in  a  cold  sweat  of  terror  from  dreams 
of  a  tomb  which  opened  of  itself;  where  the 
earth  cracked  with  a  hollow  noise  and  showed  a 
coffin  wide  and  short,  and  hair  living  and  golden 
streaming  out  under  the  lid. 

Were  the  boys  indeed  buried?  And  why 
should  their  white  souls  ride  the  winds  on  crim- 
son clouds  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  night? 

To  banish  the  specters  and  quiet  the  shrieks 
in  his  ears  he  commanded  the  Tower  chaplain  to 
unearth  the  corpses  and  have  them  better  placed, 
under  the  marble  floor  of  some  shrine  or  safe  in 
a  corner  of  the  court-yard  of  the  Tower.  It  was 
done.  None  ever  knew  when  or  with  what  holy 
rite  they  were  buried  the  second  time,  because 
the  priest  soon  afterward  died,  and  with  him 
went  the  knowledge  of  their  resting-place. 

Richard  did  not  long  enjoy  his  throne,  but  in 
his  brief  reign  noble  ladies  and  gallant  gentle- 
men were  imprisoned  in  grim  strongholds,  and 
marched  from  dungeons  to  death  on  the  heads- 


THE   LITTLE  PRINCES.  137 

man's  block.  Sometimes  he  would  have  drums 
beat  and  trumpets  sound,  so  that  the  last  words 
of  the  dying  could  not  be  heard  by  the  assembled 
crowds,  for  he  feared  an  uprising  of  his  subjects. 
Only  two  years  afterward  he  dashed  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fight  at  Bosworth,  and  there  lost 
his  kingdom  and  his  life.  Under  a  hawthorn- 
bush  Lord  Stanley  found  the  crown  of  England, 
which  the  tyrant  had  worn  to  the  battle-field.  It 
was  badly  bruised  and  trampled  on,  the  jewels 
dim  with  dust  and  clouded  with  blood.  Stanley 
placed  it  just  as  it  was  on  the  head  of  Henry, 
Earl  of  Richmond,  and  the  soldiers  of  the  royal 
arms  shouted  with  joy,  "Long  live  King  Henry 

vn." 

Later  in  the  day  the  body  of  the  Hunchback 
was  pulled  out  of  the  mire,  stripped  naked,  tied 
across  a  horse's  back  like  a  sack  of  worthless  clay 
(which  indeed  it  was),  and  taken  to  a  near 
church-yard  for  burial.  Nobody  cared  for  the 
monster,  nor  minded  how  his  blood  ran  down 
in  the  dust  of  the  road  on  its  way  to  the  grave 
which  had  no  mourners. 

The  new  King  marched  in  the  splendor  of 
banners  and  with  triumphal  music  to  the 
Tower,  at  that  time  used  as  a  palace.  He  was 
attended  by  a  princely  escort,  gentlemen  on 
horseback   wearing  jeweled    armor,   and   long 

10 


138       THE  TOWER   OF  MANY   STORIES. 

trains  of  gilded  coaches  filled  with  ladies  in  bril- 
liant robes,  making  altogether  a  brave  show. 
Chambers  tapestried  in  silk  were  set  apart  for 
the  court,  beds  were  canopied  with  velvet,  soft 
carpets  and  rich  hangings — gold,  crimson,  violet 
— covered  the  rough  stones,  and  there  was 
high  feasting  and  much  merry-making.  When 
the  ceremonies  were  over,  Henry  thought  of  the 
murdered  innocents,  and  made  inquiry  about 
them.  Forrest  and  the  priest  were  dead,  and  the 
other  two  accomplices — to  whom  was  offered 
pardon  on  confession — knew  nothing  of  the 
second  burial.  It  was  supposed  the  chaplain 
would,  if  possible,  lay  the  Princes  in  consecrated 
ground.  St.  Peter's  Chapel  was  rummaged, 
many  coffins  were  opened  and  stared  into, 
and  the  near  church-yard  was  upturned  and 
searched  for  the  precious  relics,  but  none  was 
discovered.  Court  flatterers  pretended  to  be- 
lieve the  children  had  been  sent  out  of  the  coun- 
try, and  were  still  alive  somewhere  in  the  prov- 
inces. 

Kings  came  and  went.  The  Tower  guns 
thundered  when  a  young  Sovereign  was  crowned 
but  they  never  pointed  to  the  terrible  mystery. 
Every  newly  made  King  searched  for  the  little 
Princes  and  roused  a  passing  interest  that  quick- 
ly waned,  and  the  shadowy  history  faded  into  a 


THE   LITTLE  PRINCES.  139 

sad  tradition  with  hardly  a  color  of  reality.  It 
would  never  be  known,  they  said,  till  the  day 
when  the  earth  and  the  sea,  and  all  that  in  them 
is,  shall  give  up  their  dead.  But  the  earth  and 
the  sea  are  always  giving  up  their  secrets. 

The  ancient  fortress  grew  grayer  and  drearier 
than  ever,  and  portions  of  it  began  to  crumble 
and  rot.  Then  the  murder  came  to  light,  proved 
by  best  evidence — the  remains  of  the  Princes 
themselves.  Some  workmen  making  a  new 
stairway  to  the  royal  chapel  found  under  the 
steps,  hidden  close  to  the  wall  and  covered  with 
earth,  two  skeletons  answering  exactly  to  the 
missing  youths  long  sought. 

Intense  feeling  was  excited;  news  of  the  find- 
ing was  hurried  to  Charles  Second,  then  King  of 
England.  He  stopped  chasing  butterflies  with 
the  gay  ladies  of  his  court,  and  under  the  kind 
impulse  that  never  quite  forsook  the  trifler,  he 
arranged  for  their  removal  and  fitting  interment. 

There  was  not  much  left  of  the  beloved  dead 
to  be  gathered  together.  The  flesh  was  gone  to 
dust,  and  mixed  with  common  earth  were  shreds 
of  golden  hair,  stained  and  soiled  by  long  burial. 
Tenderly  they  were  borne  to  Westminster  Abbey 
and  laid  away  not  far  from  the  ashes  of  the  kins- 
man who  sought  their  death. 


I40      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

Sir   Walter  Raleigh. 

The  most  illustrious  name  connected  with 
London  Tower — high  over  king,  priest,  or 
prince — is  the  name  of  Raleigh.  There  at  four 
different  times  he  was  sent,  not  so  much  prisoner 
of  England  as  of  Spain.  He  never  lay  in  the 
lonesome  cell  in  the  crypt  called  his.  His  long- 
est term  was  in  the  grim  fortress  Bloody  Tower, 
where  his  undaunted  spirit  taught  the  world 

"Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage." 

He  was  allowed  the  freedom  of  the  garden, 
with  a  little  lodge  for  a  study — a  hen-house  of 
lath  and  plaster,  where  he  experimented  with 
drugs  and  chemicals,  studied  medicine  and  ship- 
building, kept  his  crucibles  and  apparatus,  and 
the  near  terrace  he  paced  up  and  down  through 
weary  years  is  tp  this  day  called  Raleigh's  walk. 

It  was  in  the  reign  of  King  James  the  First — 
the  cruel  and  cowardly — ^that  Raleigh  was 
doomed,  and  never  in  his  peerless  prime  was 
he  greater  than  in  the  fourteen  years  that  sen- 
tence of  death  hung  over  his  head.  His  prison 
was  a  court  to  which  men  crowded  with  delight. 
Queen  Anne  sent  gracious  messages  to  him,  and 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH.  141 

Prince  Henry  rode  down  from  Whitehall  to  hear 
the  old  sailor  tell  of  green  aisles  with  waving 
palms  like  beckoning  hands,  birds  of  wonderful 
plumage,  hissing  serpents  in  tropic  jungles,  bar- 
barian cities  built  of  precious  stones,  and  of 
rivers  running  over  sands  of  gold,  all  waiting 
for  the  English  conqueror  to  come  and  make 
them  his  own. 

After  a  morning  of  high  converse  the  Prince 
cried  out,  ''No  man  but  my  father  would  keep 
such  a  bird  in  such  a  cage,"  and  when  the  young 
listener  fell  ill  the  Queen  would  have  him  take 
nothing  but  Raleigh's  cordial,  which,  she  said, 
had  saved  her  life. 

His  best  biographer  writes:  "Raleigh  was  a 
sight  to  see;  not  only  for  his  fame  and  name, 
but  for  his  picturesque  and  dazzling  figure. 
Fifty-one  years  old,  tall,  tawny,  splendid,  with 
the  bronze  of  tropical  suns  on  his  leonine  cheek, 
a  bushy  beard,  a  round  mustache,  and  a  ripple 
of  curling  hair  which  his  man  Peter  took  an  hour 
to  dress.  Appareled  as  became  such  a  figure, 
in  scarf  and  band  of  richest  color  and  costliest 
stuff,  in  cap  and  plume  worth  a  ransom,  in  jacket 
powdered  with  gems,  his  whole  attire  from  cap 
to  shoe-strings  blazing  with  rubies,  emeralds, 
and  pearls,  he  was  allowed  to  be  one  of  the  hand- 
somest men  alive." 


142       THE  TOWER   OF  MANY   STORIES. 

In  the  eleventh  year  of  his  bondage  he  finished 
the  first  part  of  the  History  of  the  World.  He 
wrote  what  men  will  not  let  die,  invented  the 
modern  war-ship,  and  from  the  turrets  of  Bloody 
Tower  looked  across  the  vast  blue  plain  of  ocean 
and  directed  operations  in  Virginia  and  Guiana. 
He  was  a  guiding  Hght  to  his  beloved  England; 
proud  and  brilliant  heroes  deferred  to  him, 
sought  his  advice;  charming  women  were 
charmed  by  the  most  courtly  of  courtiers,  and  all 
felt  him  to  be  a  man  whom  the  government 
could  not  afford  to  spare.  He  knew  more  than 
any  other  person  living  of  the  endless  riches 
offered  by  the  New  World  to  the  Old,  and  his 
services  were  at  the  King's  command.  While 
prisoner  to  the  crown  he  sailed  with  five  ships 
under  royal  orders  for  the  region  of  the  Orinoco, 
the  land  of  promise  unfulfilled.  The  golden  city 
lighted  by  jewels  was  a  vanishing  illusion  end- 
ing in  bitter  disappointment. 

Years  before,  in  1609,  he  had  written  to 
Shakespeare,  whom  he  called,  "My  Dearest 
Will:" 

"Great  were  our  hopes,  both  of  glory  and  of 
gold,  in  the  kingdom  of  Powhatan.  But  it 
grieves  me  much  to  say  that  all  hath  resulted  in 
infelicity,  misfortune,  and  an  unhappy  end  .  .  . 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH.  143 

As  I  was  blameworthy  for  thy  risk,  I  send  by 
the  messenger  your-  £50,  which  you  shall  not 
lose  by  my  overhopeful  vision.  For  its  usance 
I  send  a  package  of  a  new  herb  from  the  Chesa- 
peake, called  by  the  natives,  tobacco.  Make  it 
not  into  tea,  as  did  one  of  my  kinsmen,  but 
kindle  and  smoke  it  in  the  little  tube  the  mes- 
senger will  bestow  ...  it  is  a  balm  for  all  sor- 
rows and  griefs,  and  as  a  dream  of  Paradise  .  .  . 
Thou  knowest  that  from  my  youth  up  I  have 
adventured  for  the  welfare  and  glory  of  our 
Queen,  Elizabeth.  On  sea  and  on  land  and  in 
many  climes  have  I  fought  the  accursed  Span- 
iard, and  am  honored  by  our  sovereign  and 
among  men  .  .  .  but  all  this  would  I  give,  and 
more,  for  a  tithe  of  the  honor  which  in  the  com- 
ing time  shall  assuredly  be  thine.  Thy  kingdom 
is  of  the  imagination,  and  hath  no  limit  or  end." 

The  dreams  of  the  Admiral  far  outran  any 
possibiHty,  and  the  mines  of  Guiana  proved  a 
cheat  equal  to  the  yellow  clay  of  the  Roanoke. 
Peril  of  life,  fortune,  and  the  varied  resources  of 
genius  and  valor  were  not  enough  to  insure  suc- 
cess, and  a  failure  in  the  paradise  of  the  world 
probably  hastened  the  sentence  for  which  Philip 
III.  of  Spain  clamored. 

The  charges  of  treason  against  Raleigh  were 


144       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

pure  invention;  but  on  his  return  from  South 
America  he  was  arrested,  committed  to  the 
Tower,  and  the  warrant  for  execution  was  signed 
without  a  new  trial,  while  men  from  the  streets 
and  ships  came  crowding  to  the  wharf,  whence 
they  could  see  him  walking  on  the  wall.  He 
was  advised  to  kill  himself  to  escape  the  shame- 
ful sentence  of  James  I.,  but  he  solemnly  spoke 
of  self-murder,  and  declared  he  would  die  in  the 
light  of  day  and  before  the  face  of  his  country- 
men. In  the  field  of  battle,  on  land  and  on  sea, 
he  had  looked  at  death  too  often  to  tremble 
now. 

His  farewell  letter  to  his  wife  is  one  of  the 
sweetest.    I  give  it  entire: 

"You  shall  now  receive,  dear  wife,  my  last 
words  in  these  lines.  My  love  I  send  you,  that 
you  may  keep  it  when  I  am  dead;  and  my  coun- 
sel, that  you  may  remember  it  when  I  am  no 
more.  I  would  not  by  my  will  present  you  with 
sorrows,  dear  Bess;  let  them  go  to  the  grave 
and  be  buried  with  me  in  the  dust.  And  seeing 
that  it  is  not  the  will  of  God  that  I  shall  ever 
see  you  more  in  this  life,  bear  it  patiently  and 
with  a  heart  like  thyself. 

"Firstly,  I  send  you  all  the  thanks  my  heart 
can  conceive,  or  words  can  express,  for  your 


SIR    WALTER   RALEIGH.  145 

many  troubles  and  cares  taken  for  me;  which 
though  they  have  not  taken  effect  as  you  wished, 
yet  the  debt  is  nathless,  and  pay  it  I  never  shall 
in  this  world. 

"Secondly,  I  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
me  living,  do  not  hide  yourself  in  grief  many 
days,  but  seek  to  help  the  miserable  fortunes  of 
our  poor  child.  Thy  mourning  cannot  avail 
me;  I  am  but  dust.  .  .  Remember  your  poor 
child  for  his  father's  sake,  who  chose  and  loved 
you  in  his  happiest  time.  God  is  my  witness 
it  is  for  you  and  yours  I  desired  Hfe;  but  it  is 
true  I  disdain  myself  for  begging  of  it.  For 
know,  dear  wife,  that  your  son  is  the  son  of  a 
true  man,  and  one  who  in  his  own  respect  de- 
spiseth  death,  and  all  his  misshapen  grisly  forms. 
I  cannot  write  much.  God  knows  how  hardly 
I  steal  the  time  when  all  sleep;  and  it  is  time  to 
separate  my  thoughts  from  the  world.  Beg  my 
dead  body,  which  Hving  is  denied  thee,  and  either 
lay  it  at  Sherbourne  or  in  Exeter,  by  my  father 
and  mother.  I  can  write  no  more.  Time  and 
Death  call  me  away. 

''The  everlasting  God,  Infinite,  Powerful,  In- 
scrutable; the  Almighty  God,  which  is  Goodness 
itself,  Mercy  itself;  the  true  light  and  life — keep 
thee  and  thine,  have  mercy  on  me,  and  teach  me 
to  forgive  my  persecutors  and  false  witnesses, 


146       THE  TOWER   OF  MANY   STORIES. 

and  send  us  to  meet  again  in  His  Glorious  King- 
dom. My  own  true  wife,  farewell.  Bless  my 
poor  boy.  Pray  for  me,  and  let  the  good  God 
fold  you  both  in  His  arms.  Written  with  the 
dying  hand  of  sometime  thy  husband,  but  now, 
alas!    overthrown. 

"Yours  that  was,  but  not  now  my  own, 

<*W.  Raleigh." 

In  his  final  imprisonment  Lady  Raleigh  was 
not  allowed  a  share.  When  she  caught  his 
youthful  fancy  it  was  as  Elizabeth  Throckmor- 
ton, maid  of  honor  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 

"Sweet  Bess"  was  a  favorite  there  among 
ladies  of  gentle  blood.  The  flatterers  of  the 
dazzling  court  fluttered  round  the  lovely  young 
girl,  conspicuous  for  beauty  and  grace;  slender, 
fair,  golden-haired.  Her  sighs  were  only  for  the 
sea-captain  who  expected  to  crown  her  with 
glory  won  by  his  sword,  and  riches,  the  spoil 
to  be  fought  for  in  many  lands.  She  was  his 
loyal  wife  to  the  end,  always  pleading  for  pardon, 
defiant  before  King  and  court,  where  she  ap- 
peared daily  in  her  husband's  cause,  "holding 
little  Wat  by  the  hand."  When  her  petition  was 
refused,  she  was  not  afraid  to  call  down  curses 
on  the  head  of  the  tyrant,  who  heeded  not  her 
wrath  or  her  grief. 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH.  147 

The  water-way  from  the  Thames  is  a  dark 
passage  under  whose  arch  a  pale  procession  of 
ghosts  of  the  murdered  may  easily  be  fancied  as 
coming  up  out  of  the  past.  Beneath  it  went 
Raleigh  from  prison  to  hear  his  sentence  in 
Westminster  Hall;  from  the  King's  Bench  he 
was  sent  to  Westminster  Abbey.  Crowds 
thronged  to  watch  him  pass,  and  from  the  car- 
riage window  he  noticed  his  old  friend  Burton, 
and  invited  him  to  Palace  Yard  next  day  to  see 
him  die. 

The  warrant  came  on  a  dark  October  morn- 
ing, 1618.  Raleigh  was  in  bed,  but  on  hearing 
the  Lieutenant's  voice  he  sprang  lightly  to  his 
feet,  threw  on  hose  and  doublet,  and  left  his 
room.  At  the  door  he  met  Peter,  his  barber, 
coming  in.  "Sir,"  said  Peter,  "we  have  not 
curled  your  head  this  morning."  His  master 
answered  with  a  smile,  "Let  them  comb  it  that 
shall  have  it."  The  faithful  servant  followed  him 
to  the  gate  insisting  on  the  service.  "Peter,"  he 
asked,  "canst  thou  give  me  any  plaster  to  set 
on  a  man's  head  when  it  is  off?" 

John  Eliot  wTote:  "There  is  no  parallel  to  the 
fortitude  of  Raleigh.  Nothing  petty  disturbed 
his  calm  soul  in  ending  a  career  of  constant  toil 
for  the  greatness  and  honor  of  his  country.  The 
hero  who  created  a  New  England  for  Old  Eng- 


148         THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

land  was  fearless  of  death,  the  most  resolute  and 
confident  of  men,  yet  with  reverence  and  con- 
science." 

The  executioner  was  deeply  moved  by  the 
matchless  spirit  cf  the  martyr.  He  knelt  and 
prayed  forgiveness — the  usual  formula  at  the 
block  or  scaffold.  Raleig-h  placed  both  hands  on 
the  man's  shoulders  and  said,  "I  forgive  you  with 
all  my  heart.  Now  show  me  the  axe."  He  care- 
fully touched  the  edge  of  the  blade  to  feel  its 
keenness,  and  kissed  it.  "This  gives  me  no  fear. 
It  is  a  sharp  and  fair  medicine  to  cure  all  my  ills." 
Being  asked  which  way  he  would  lie  on  the 
block,  he  answered,  "It  is  no  matter  which  way 
the  head  lies,  so  that  the  heart  be  right."  Pres- 
ently he  added,  "When  I  stretch  forth  my  hands, 
despatch  me."  There  were  omissions  in  his  last 
speech,  but  we  may  be  sure  they  were  noble  ut- 
terances. He  prayed  in  an  unbroken  voice,  and 
begged  his  friends  to  stand  near  him  on  the  scaf- 
fold so  they  might  better  hear  his  dying  words. 
Which  being  done,  he  concluded,  "And  now  I 
entreat  you  all  to  join  with  me  in  prayer  that  the 
great  God  of  Heaven,  whom  I  have  grievously 
offended — being  a  man  full  of  vanity,  and  having 
lived  a  sinful  life  in  all  sinful  callings,  having 
been  a  soldier,  a  captain,  and  a  sea-captain,  and 
a  courtier,  which  are  all  places  of  wickedness  and 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH.  149 

vice — that  God,  I  say,  would  forgive  me  and  cast 
away  my  sins  from  me,  and  that  He  would  re- 
ceive me  into  everlasting  life.  So  I  take  my 
leave  of  you  making  my  peace  with  God. 

''Give  me  heartily  of  your  prayers,"  he  re- 
peated, turning  right  and  left.  The  headsman 
cast  down  his  own  cloak  that  the  victim  might 
kneel  on  it  after  laying  off  his  velvet  robe.  An 
act  that  reminds  us  of  the  happy  chance  for  like 
courtesy  that  made  Raleigh's  fortune  when  he 
was  a  boyish  adventurer  in  the  train  of  Sussex;  a 
beautiful  youth  watching  the  state  barge  of 
Queen  Elizabeth. 

The  supreme  moment  came;  the  great  cap- 
tain, never  greater  than  in  death,  stretched  out 
his  palsied  hands.  The  deathman  hesitated. 
"What  dost  thou  fear,  man?  Strike,  strike." 
One  blow — a  true  one — and  the  murder  was 
done.  There  were  those  standing  near  who  saw 
his  face  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel.  Cour- 
tier, historian,  poet,  seaman,  soldier,  his  was  the 
noblest  head  that  ever  rolled  into  English  dust. 

The  wasted  body  was  laid  under  the  altar  of 
St.  Margaret's,  the  church  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, across  the  way  from  Westminster,  with 
only  a  small  tablet  to  mark  his  resting-place. 

Sweet  Bess,  who  shared  his  glory  and  his 
prison-house,  and  with  little  Wat  had  walked  the 


ISO        THE  TOWER   OF  MANY  STORIES. 

terrace  with  him,  does  not  lie  beside  him.  I  do 
not  know  where  that  fond  and  faithful  heart  went 
to  dust,  but  I  do  believe  that  in  the  final  day, 
for  which  all  other  days  are  made,  true  love  will 
find  its  own,  and  they  will  be  reunited  for  ever- 
more. 

I  saw  no  monument  to  Raleigh  in  Westmin- 
ster Abbey.  The  fame  of  the  colonizer  of  Vir- 
ginia belongs  to  us  of  the  New  World,  and  in 
1880  a  memorial  window  was  placed  there  at  the 
expense  of  Americans  in  London.  Canon  Far- 
rar's  address  at  the  unveiling  was  a  brilliant  re- 
view of  Raleigh's  life  and  varied  fortunes  in  the 
most  glorious  portion  of  the  Elizabethan  era.  It 
concluded  with  an  earnest  appeal  to  the  England 
of  Queen  Victoria  and  the  America  of  Lincoln 
and  of  Garfield  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder 
under  the  banner  of  the  cross. 

Lady  Arabella  Stuart. 

One  of  the  most  familiar  names  to  the  student 
of  English  history  is  that  of  Lady  Arabella 
Stuart,  who  was  long  a  constant  source  of  alarm 
to  James  I.,  because  she  was  born  near  the 
throne.  She  never  urged  her  claim  nor  appeared 
to  covet  the  crown,  though  daughter  of  Charles, 
Earl  of  Lennox,  and  cousin  to  the  King.     A 


LADY  ARABELLA   STUART.  151 

lovely  girl,  full  of  wit  and  grace,  gifted  with  the 
gentle  art  of  making  friends,  she  was  the  life  of  a 
lifeless  court. 

Many  matches  were  proposed  to  the  Sover- 
eign, who  had  power  to  make  or  break  a  mar- 
riage for  her.  Suitors  of  various  rank  and  coun- 
tries knelt  at  her  feet,  and  it  was  told  that  even 
Henri  the  Great  of  France  had  dreams  of  seating 
the  blue-eyed  Countess  with  the  wavy  tresses  on 
the  throne  of  Charlemagne. 

So  passed  her  youth;  and  in  her  thirty-fifth 
year  James,  by  way  of  banter,  told  the  maiden 
she  had  remained  fancy  free  to  suit  him  long 
enough;  she  might  now  wed  whom  she  would. 
Poets,  adventurers,  courtiers,  and  knights  of 
high  lineage  kissed  her  white  hand,  but  came  no 
nearer  the  heart,  which  beat  faster  for  none  but 
William  Seymour,  afterward  Marquis  of  Hert- 
ford, a  youth  of  twenty-three  years.  Only  the 
stars  were  witness  as  they  sealed  their  vows  and 
oath,  and  the  secret  kept  well  for  a  season.  But 
a  bird  in  the  air  carried  the  matter  to  Windsor, 
and  Seymour  was  arrested  and  brought  before 
the  Council  to  answer  for  the  outrage — betrothal 
in  secrecy. 

He  denied  everything;  swore  he  had  not 
thought  of  anything  but  pastime.  What  did  he 
want  with  a  wife  ten  years  older  than  himself? 


152        THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

And  so  the  rumor  was  forgotten  with  other 
court  gossip. 

They  thought  the  King  would  give  up  his 
nonsense,  for  Seymour  was  from  one  of  the 
proudest  families  of  Europe,  and  there  was  no 
reason  in  this  opposition;  besides,  he  had  con- 
sented to  a  wedding.  But  no  relenting  was  ad- 
mitted by  James,  and  in  July,  1610,  a  poor  priest 
was  found  and  bribed  to  risk  his  neck  by  going 
through  the  marriage  ceremony  for  the  lovers. 

After  a  year  of  concealment  the  news  reached 
the  King's  ear.  He  was  enraged;  the  priest  was 
thrown  into  prison,  the  two  witnesses  present 
were  arrested,  and  the  offending  pair  parted  in 
the  first  sweetness  of  the  honeymoon.  Seymour 
was  sent  to  St.  Thomas's  Tower  on  the  river. 
He  was  furnished  handsome  apartments,  with 
plates,  hangings,  books,  luxurious  belongings; 
and  the  Countess  was  lodged  in  a  fine  house  on 
the  Thames,  with  attendance  and  surroundings 
as  became  her  rank;  allowed  every  freedom — 
except  freedom. 

Indifferent  to  the  elegancies  about  her,  the 
bride  wrote  tender  and  passionate  letters  to  her 
bridegroom,  but  he  answered  never  a  word. 
Sweet  William  made  no  sign,  sent  no  love-gift. 
He  wrote  only  to  the  Lords  of  the  Council,  pray- 
ing to  be  restored  to  liberty,  that  his  health 


LADY   ARABELLA   STUART.       "        153 

would  be  lost  if  he  were  not  freed,  and  busied  his 
days  making  himself  comfortable  in  the  cham- 
bers over  the  Traitors'  Gate  of  London  Tower, 
his  wife's  money  paying  the  bills. 

One  dull,  foggy  day  she  quietly  stepped  into  a 
common  barge  and  floated  down  the  river  to  the 
barred  window  on  the  wharf,  where  she  might 
make  signs  to  him  who  did  not  appear  bold 
enough  to  plan  an  escape,  and  returned  safely 
to  her  castle.  The  brave  movement  could  not 
be  concealed,  and  in  his  wrath  the  King  ordered 
a  dozen  counties  to  be  put  between  his  cousin 
and  the  defiant  prisoner  looking  with  despair 
at  the  water-gates. 

Sadly  did  the  tearful  blue  eyes  turn  to  the 
bleak  and  frozen  North,  while  sentinels  doubled 
their  watch  on  the  square  tower  built  over  the 
moat. 

Such  was  his  Majesty's  pleasure. 

Lady    Arabella's    attendants    were    devoted, 

ready  to  brave  death  itself  for  their  mistress; 

her  soft,  kind  manner  never  failed  to  win  where 

self-love  had  not  taken  too  deep  a  hold.     Day 

and  night,  while  she  sighed  her  soul  away,  they 

schemed  and  planned  to  open  a  path  to  reunion 

in  the  pleasant  land  of  France,  where  they  might 

be  at  peace  in  banishment.     At  last  she  slipped 

off,  well  provided  by  her  aunt,  the  Countess  of 
u 


154       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

Shrewsbury,  with  costly  jewels  current  in  any 
country,  and  with  good  English  gold  to  lavish 
on  any  who  might  espouse  her  cause.  She 
glided  down  the  Thames,  reached  the  Channel, 
by  arrangement  was  taken  on  a  light  French 
bark;  but  the  open  water  in  front  of  Calais  was 
not  for  the  hapless  bride.  Captain  Corve  did  his 
best;  his  little  craft  was  no  match  for  the  swift 
war-ship  Adventure  in  pursuit.  Gallantly  he 
fought  wind  and  wave,  but  Admiral  Monson 
outsped  him,  and  after  thirteen  shots  were  fired, 
he  struck  his  flag,  and  the  crew  of  the  victorious 
vessel  boarded  the  bark  which  carried  the  royal 
lady. 

She  gracefully  yielded  herself  prisoner  to 
James,  King  of  England,  consoled  by  the 
thought  that  he  whom  she  loved  better  than 
life  was  so  well  disguised,  and  his  plot  so  well 
laid,  that  he  was  safe  in  French  port. 

''Where  is  William,  Earl  of  Seymour?"  de- 
manded Monson,  Admiral  in  command  of  the 
chase. 

Lady  Arabella  smiled. 

"I  cannot  tell,  but  I  believe  he  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  enemies  and  mine." 

So  she  was  marched  to  the  Tower,  into  rooms 
once  occupied  by  Margaret  Douglas,  the  com- 
mon grandmother  of  the  King  and  herself. 


LADY   ARABELLA   STUART.  155 

■  When  brought  before  the  Lords  she  was  mild 
and  patient,  yet  asked  with  becoming  spirit  why 
she,  a  free  woman  of  royal  blood,  should  be  held 
a  criminal  and  separated  from  her  lawful  hus- 
band. 

The  furious  King  seized  her  jewels  and  money; 
and  her  two  companions  in  the  flight,  gentlemen 
by  birth,  were  dragged  to  the  torture-chamber  of 
the  Tower,  and  forced  to  confess  what  they  knew 
of  the  perilous  attempt.    • 

The  tale  of  Seymour's  changes  of  wig  and 
cloak,  in  various  disguises  and  places,  is  too 
long  to  tell  here.  Delighted  with  liberty  and 
with  France,  he  seemed  to  mourn  the  loss  of  his 
bride  less  than  the  loss  of  her  jewels  and  money, 
for  William  dearly  loved  to  loiter  in  the  delicate 
plain  called  Ease,  and  lie  in  the  soft  places  gold 
can  buy.  The  calculating  fellow  found  his  high 
name  a  passport  in  Paris,  which  city  was  vastly 
amusing,  and  so  was  the  staid  but  not  less  de- 
lightful capital  of  the  Belgians. 

In  the  damp  old  rooms  of  her  grandmother. 
Lady  Arabella  languished  five  years.  The  third 
year  an  escape  was  arranged,  and  when  the  time 
was  ripe  and  success  appeared  assured  she  was 
betrayed,  and  the  venture  ended  in  nothing  but 
harsher  treatment.  While  ''William,  dearest," 
danced  the  night  away,  she  wore  out  the  dark 


156       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

hours  writing  prayers  to  the  King,  who  deigned 
no  answer. 

Like  other  high-born  dames,  she  was  skilled 
in  cunning  needle-work,  and  many  a  doleful  day 
was  spent  stitching  gay  silks  into  canvas,  mak- 
ing a  bright  embroidery,  offered  as  a  souvenir 
to  the  man  who  imprisoned  her;  but  the  King 
would  not  touch  the  pretty  gift.  The  courtesy 
did  not  move  him  any  more  than  her  demand 
to  be  tried  by  her  peers,  according  to  law,  in 
open  court,  instead  of  by  a  Committee  of  the 
Council  sitting  with  closed  doors. 

When  the  tapestry  came  back  rejected  the  blue 
eyes  grew  dimmer,  and  her  cheek  paled  with  the 
heart-sickness  of  hope  deferred,  or  rather  of  de- 
spair,, and  it  was  rumored  that  the  daughter  of 
the  House  of  Stuart  had  met  her  doom  in  mad- 
ness. Sorriest  of  all  the  history  is  that  the  youth- 
ful husband  forgot  his  too-loving  wife.  The  let- 
ters full  of  tenderness  reached  the  trifler  at 
European  courts,  and  lay  unanswered.  The  low- 
browed villain  Wood,  who  had  her  in  charge, 
knew  the  death  of  his  captive  would  please  Ki'ng 
James  and  the  courtiers  who  lived  on  his  smiles. 
His  small  mind  lent  itself  to  all  sorts  of  petty 
annoyances  and  means  to  make  imprisonment 
unwholesome.  She  must  not  walk,  nor  have 
her  own  attendants,  nor  food  and  dress  befitting 


LADY   ARABELLA   STUART.  157 

the  near  kinswoman  of  queens,  though  the  of- 
fended monarch  generously  had  the  ceihng  of 
her  room  '^mended  to  keep  out  whid  and  rain." 

The  forlorn  lady  passed  from  deep  melancholy 
to  spasms  that  touched  her  brain.  Even  in  such 
pitiful  condition  she  was  closely  watched  and 
guarded  by  the  nervous  coward,  who  pretended 
to  believe  there  was  an  Arabella  plot,  with  Ral- 
eigh at  its  head,  secreted  in  the  Tower. 

For  a  year  the  insane  Countess  lived,  gentle 
and  harmless,  chattering  like  a  little  child.  Her 
one  amusement  was  singing  songs  of  love  and 
longing,  learned  in  happy  days,  with  the  lute, 
whose  trembling  strings  made  the  saddest  strains 
ear  ever  heard.  The  heart-breaking  music  soft- 
ened even  her  jailer;  he  grew  compassionate,  and 
she  wandered  at  will  through  the  doleful  halls 
and  the  garden.  But  the  wan  face  never  bright- 
ened; she  faded  slowly,  drooped,  and  died. 

In  the  chill  midnight  of  autumn  her  wornout 
body  was  brought  by  the  black-flowing  river  to 
Westminster  Abbey,  in  a  miserable  coffin  with- 
out a  plate,  and  laid  away  in  that  sanctuary  with 
no  ceremony,  not  even  a  prayer.  "For,"  says  a 
loyal  courtier,  "to  have  had  a  great  funeral  for 
one  dying  out  of  favor  with  the  King  would  re- 
flect on  the  King's  honor." 

After  a  troubled  life  she  sleeps  well  in  the  tomb 


158       THE  TOWER   OF  MANY   STORIES. 

of  her  ill-starred  family,  close  beside  the  dust  of 
her  grandmother,  Margaret  Douglas.  Her  cof- 
fin lies  across  and  flattens  the  leaden  casket 
which  holds  the  headless  corpse  of  her  great-aunt 
Mary,  unhappy  Queen  of  Scots.  Neither  name 
nor  date  is  above  her  breast,  and  the  skull  and 
bones  were  plainly  seen  below  the  rotten  wood 
in  1868  (a  ghastly  sight!)  when  the  vaults  were 
searched  for  the  remains  of  James  I. 

Her  persecutor  rests  near  his  victim.  The 
enemies  are  at  one  now.  The  strange  peace  of 
death  which  ends  all  feuds  has  brought  them  to- 
gether, and  their  restless  hearts  lie  still. 

The  periods  of  which  I  write  are  sometimes 
called  the  good  old  times.  I  call  them  the  bad 
old  times. 

The  Earl  of  Essex  and  His  Ring. 

The  many  portraits  of  Queen  Elizabeth  I  have 
seen  are  marked  by  severity.  Red  hair,  a  pale 
high  forehead,  keen  dark  eyes,  a  nose  hooked 
like  the  beak  of  an  eagle,  sharp  chin;  such  is  not 
the  face  to  win  admiration,  much  less  to  waken 
love;  yet,  when  nearly  seventy — an  age  which  no 
art  can  conceal — she  listened  to  the  soft  flatteries 
of  her  courtiers  as  tributes  to  her  beauty  which 
they  could  not  repress.     When  one  shaded  his 


THE  EARL  OF  ESSEX.  159 

eyes  at  her  approach,  as  though  the  luster  of  her 
face  dazzled  his  sight  like  the  sun,  and  said  ''he 
could  not  behold  it  with  a  fixed  eye,"  she  was  de- 
lighted with  the  foolish  speech,  as  a  young  girl 
with  the  roses  of  her  first  ball.  One  can  hardly 
keep  from  laughing  at  the  idea  of  high-born 
youths  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  hanging  breath- 
less on  her  withered  smiles  and  pretending  wor- 
ship of  her  charms.  Such  was  her  daily  portion 
from  the  shining  train  of  courtiers  surrounding 
her,  and  she  never  tired  of  it.  One  said  of  her 
red  hair:  "A  poet,  madam,  might  call  it  a 
golden  web  wrought  by  Minerva;  but  to  my 
thinking  it  was  paler  than  even  the  purest  gold 
— more  like  the  last  parting  sunbeam  of  the  soft- 
est day  of  spring." 

She  vowed  that  England  was  her  husband, 
whom  she  loved  with  a  perfect  love,  and  she 
would  have  none  other;  she  had  wedded  herself 
to  the  kingdom  at  the  coronation  by  the  ring 
then  placed  upon  her  finger:  in  remembrance 
thereof  she  wished  engraved  on  her  tombstone 
these  words:  "Here  lies  Elizabeth,  who  lived 
and  died  a  Maiden  Queen." 

There  was  another  ring,  of  which  I  shall  pres- 
ently tell,  more  precious  than  that  which  went 
with  the  crown,  because  life  and  death  were  in 
its  keeping. 


i6o      THE  TOWER   OF  MANY  STORIES. 

It  was  her  custom  to  select  from  her  courtiers 
one  on  whom  she  lavished  a  fickle  love  and  tran- 
sient favor.  When  the  court  was  beginning  to 
tire  of  Raleigh,  Leicester,  a  former  favorite,  in- 
troduced his  step-son,  Robert  Devereux,  second 
Earl  of  Essex,  in  hope  of  weakening  the  in- 
fluence of  Raleigh.  Essex  was  a  spirited  boy  of 
seventeen,  fresh  from  Oxford,  with  handsome 
face  and  graceful  mien.  Clad  in  the  picturesque 
dress  of  the  period,  wearing  crest  and  plume, 
badges  and  ribbons  of  honor,  he  was  a  figure  to 
claim  the  glance  of  a  king  as  he  greeted  his  sov- 
ereign, and  it  is  not  strange  that  the  susceptible 
virgin  felt  the  fascination  of  such  a  presence, 
although  she  was  then  fifty  years  old. 

Before  he  was  twenty  he  fought  gallantly  with 
the  English  army  in  Holland,  and  was  foremost 
in  the  battle  of  Ziitphen,  where  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
fell.  On  his  return  to  court  the  Queen's  fancy 
deepened  into  dotage,  and,  fond  and  foolish,  she 
would  hardly  let  him  quit  her  presence.  This 
became  so  irksome  that  he  ran  ofif  to  the  war  in 
Spain,  and  refused  to  return  when  she  sent  an 
officer  after  him.  When  he  was  pleased  to  come 
back  she  forgave  all,  and  redoubled  her  favors 
in  hope  of  keeping  the  wanderer;  but  in  a  short 
time  he  again  disappeared,  and  secretly  married 
the  widow  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney.     The  Queen 


THE  EARL  OF  ESSEX.  l6l 

could  never  endure  the  marriage  of  her  courtiers, 
still  less  that  of  a  favorite.  She  banished  him; 
but  he  reappeared  in  a  few  months,  and  only  re- 
gained the  Queen's  grace  by  neglecting  his  fair, 
sweet  wife,  who  lived  in  seclusion  in  the  country 
while  he  shone  at  court. 

When  Essex  was  about  twenty-nine  years  old 
he  set  out  with  the  royal  army  for  Cadiz,  and  at 
parting  Elizabeth  gave  him  a  ring,  telling  him, 
"whatever  crimes  his  enemies  might  accuse  him 
of,  or  whatever  offences  he  may  have  committed 
against  her,  if  he  sent  it  to  her  she  would  forgive 
him."  The  precious  gift  was  probably  a  true- 
love-knot,  set  with  a  gem  that  means  unchang- 
ing; for  the  time  was  rich  with  sentiment  in  trin- 
kets, and  we  may  be  sure  the  compact  was  sealed 
with  vows  and  kisses  on  the  proffered  hand.  He 
returned  from  Spain  unsuccessful,  and  although 
the  Queen  still  petted  him,  from  this  time  on  they 
quarreled.  Essex  was  haughty  and  insolent; 
and  she,  violent  and  exacting  with  him,  yet  for- 
giving in  the  end. 

When  she  decided  to  appoint  a  Lord-Deputy 
for  Ireland,  then  in  a  state  of  revolt,  she  called  to 
her  private  room  three  of  her  court  ofificers — 
Cecil,  the  Clerk  of  the  Seal,  and  Essex.  He  ex- 
pected the  appointment,  but  failed  to  get  it, 
spoke  angrily  to  the  Queen,  and  turned  his  back 


l62       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

on  her.  She  boxed  his  ears,  and  told  him  to  "go 
and  be  hanged."  So  furious  was  he  that  his 
hand  reached  for  his  short  sword,  but  Cecil 
stepped  between  them;  and  Essex  said,  with  an 
oath,  ''that  he  would  not  have  taken  that  blow 
from  King  Henry,  her  father,  and  it  was  an  in- 
dignity he  neither  could  nor  would  endure  from 
any  one."  Then  muttering  something  about  ''a 
king  in  petticoats,"  he  rushed  madly  from  her 
presence.  In  any  one  else  such  conduct  would 
have  been  death. 

Again  the  Earl  disappeared  from  court,  and 
he  and  Elizabeth  never  were  good  friends  after- 
wards, although  a  peace  was  patched  up,  and  she 
made  him  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland.  His  ene- 
mies persuaded  her  that  the  Lord-Lieutenant 
wanted  to  make  himself  King  of  Ireland;  spies 
were  sent  to  watch  him,  but  one  of  them  was 
kind  enough  to  warn  Essex  of  his  danger.  With 
his  usual  rashness,  on  learning  this  he  at  once 
returned  to  London,  without  permission  of  the 
Queen — an  act  in  itself  treason — and  finding 
court  adjourned  to  ''Nonesuch"  in  the  country, 
he  rode  at  speed  through  mud  and  mire  to  antici- 
pate his  enemy.  Lord  Gray,  who  had  heard  of  his 
arrival,  and  started  in  haste  to  give  his  version  of 
the  affair  before  Essex  could  reach  her.  Gray 
had  been  closeted  with  the  Queen's  councillors 


THE   EARL  OF  ESSEX.  163 

a  half-hour  when  he  arrived.  Hearing  this,  Es- 
sex lost  all  sense  of  propriety,  hurried  unan- 
nounced to  the  Queen's  apartments,  and  not 
finding  her  in  the  outer  reception-room,  pushed 
on  into  her  private  bedroom.  Her  maid  was 
combing  her  hair,  which,  gray  and  thin,  was 
hanging  about  her  bony  shoulders — for  she  had 
not  yet  made  choice  out  of  her  eighty  wigs  of 
many  colors  for  the  day — nor  were  her  paint  and 
powder  on,  and  patches  pasted  over  the  wrinkled 
cheek. 

He  threw  himself  at  her  feet,  covered  her  hand 
with  kisses,  poured  out  his  story  with  oaths  of 
fidelity,  vowing  that  he  had  ever  borne  in  his 
heart  the  picture  of  her  beauty,  completely  win- 
ning the  *'most  sweet  Queen"  to  him.  He  re- 
tired to  dress,  and  in  an  hour  was  recalled  to  an 
audience,  and  was  again  well  received.  But  by 
night  the  fitful  maiden  had  changed  her  mind, 
influenced  by  the  Cecil  faction,  and  perhaps  by 
thinking  how  ugly  she  must  have  looked  in  the 
morning.  She  was  then  sixty-eight  years  old, 
and  as  vain  as  in  youth.  When  he  again  offered 
respectful  homage  she  received  him  with  great 
sternness,  and  commanded  him  to  confine  him- 
self in  his  apartments  until  sent  for  to  appear 
before  her  council  the  following  day.  His  ever- 
active  enemy  Cecil  brought  against  him  many 


l64       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

charges — not  least,  "his  over-bold  going  to  her 
Majesty's  presence  in  her  bedchamber." 

The  Queen  then  ordered  him  to  be  held  a 
prisoner  at  York  House,  where  he  remained 
many  months.  He  pretended  to  be  sick — a  trick 
he  had  to  gain  forgiveness  when  his  royal  mis- 
tress was  out  of  humor;  but  it  did  not  move  her 
this  time,  although  it  soon  became  reality.  His 
wife  was  not  permitted  to  visit  him,  nor  even 
write  to  him.  He  had  only  one  true  friend  at 
court,  the  gentle  Lady  Scroope,  his  cousin,  and 
sister  of  the  Countess  of  Nottingham.  She  wore 
mourning  for  him,  and  endured  bad  treatment 
from  Elizabeth  on  his  account,  but  stood  faithful 
to  the  end. 

Yet  the  love-sick  woman  could  not  entirely 
banish  thoughts  of  her  proud  favorite,  although 
her  mind  was  constantly  filled  with  suspicions  by 
Cecil  and  Raleigh.  To  forget  him  she  had  bear- 
baitings,  jousts  at  the  ring,  and  a  splendid  tour- 
ney in  honor  of  her  coronation  day.  These  fri- 
volities filled  the  weeks  that  poor  Essex  passed 
alone  and  wretched  in  one  room  at  York  House. 
Elizabeth  would  not  listen  to  the  prayers  of  his 
sisters  and  Lady  Scroope  for  his  release,  but  she 
accepted  the  costly  presents  they  offered,  among 
them  a  gown  worth  £500  (about  $2,500).  Essex 
finally  fell  so  ill  that  his  life  was  despaired  of.  On 


THE  EARL  OF  ESSEX.  165 

hearing  his  pitiable  state  the  Queen  wept,  and 
sent  him  her  own  physician,  and  had  prayers 
read  for  him  in  all  the  churches  of  London,  but 
something  changed  her  mood  again,  and  she  was 
harsher  than  ever.  Not  until  March  16,  1600, 
did  she  allow  him  to  go  to  his  own  home,  Essex 
House  on  the  river  and  the  Fleet,  first  sending 
away  his  family  and  all  the  servants  but  two. 
Essex  was  kept  there  prisoner  for  seventeen 
weeks,  when  the  Queen  removed  his  keeper  and 
allowed  him  to  become  a  prisoner  on  parole. 

During  this  time  he  was  examined  before  a 
commission  of  his  enemies,  appointed  for  the 
purpose,  and  was  treated  most  cruelly.  They 
let  him  stand,  occasionally  leaning  for  rest 
against  a  cupboard,  from  nine  in  the  morning  till 
eight  at  night ;  and  when  accused  of  treason,  he 
replied: 

"I  should  do  God  and  my  own  conscience 
wrong  if  I  do  not  justify  myself  as  an  honest 
man.  This  hand  shall  pull  out  this  heart  when 
any  disloyal  thought  shall  enter  it." 

The  following  August  his  tyrant  again  sum- 
moned him  to  York  House,  where  he  was  told 
that  her  Majesty  was  pleased  to  give  him  his 
liberty,  but  he  must  not  enter  her  presence  nor 
come  to  court.  Though  free,  he  was  constantly 
spied  upon.    Through  the  remainder  of  the  sum- 


l66       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

mer  his  friends  appealed  to  the  Queen  to  restore 
him  to  favor.  Essex  wrote  her  imploring  letters, 
that  brought  no  answer.  He  brooded  over  his 
fall  and  loss  of  power,  until  he  grew  desperate, 
and  gathered  about  him  at  Essex  House  all  the 
disaffected  people  of  London,  among  them  a 
host  of  Puritans.  They  formed  many  wild 
schemes — at  one  time  a  plan  to  capture  the 
Tower  and  palace;  at  another,  to  march  to  the 
court  and  compel  Essex's  enemies  to  give  him  a 
hearing.  The  Queen  remained  cold  and  silent. 
He  talked  of  her  and  of  his  own  wrongs,  and 
said  "she  was  an  old  woman  crooked  both  in 
body  and  in  mind."  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  insisted 
that  this  speech  sealed  his  doom;  for  spies  re- 
ported everything  he  said  and  did. 

His  last  piece  of  folly  was  to  raise  a  riot  one 
morning  in  the  streets  of  London  with  three 
hundred  followers,  declaring  that  "the  kingdom 
was  sold  to  Spain  by  Cecil  and  Raleigh."  The 
mob  was  quickly  dispersed,  and  Essex  slipped 
back  to  his  house  alone  in  a  small  boat.  He  had 
shut  up  as  prisoners  there  some  officers  of  the 
court  who  had  been  sent  to  talk  with  him  and 
bring  him  to  reason.  He  had  hoped  to  secure 
his  own  safety  by  giving  these  as  hostages,  but 
Sir  Ferdinando  Georges,  one  of  his  own  men, 
had  liberated  them,  and  as  he  had  already  been 


THE  EARL  OF  ESSEX.  167 

proclaimed  traitor,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  barricade  the  house.  It  was  surrounded 
by  the  Queen's  troops,  and  he  held  out  till  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  and  only  surrendered  then  be- 
cause ''he  was  sore  vexed  with  the  tears  and  in- 
cessant screams  of  the  ladies."  He  was  confined 
that  night  in  Lambeth  Palace,  and  on  Monday, 
February  9,  1601,  together  with  his  followers, 
was  taken  to  the  Tower.  When  the  boat  glided 
through  the  Traitor's  Gate  beneath  St.  Thomas's 
Tower,  he  must  have  realized  the  hopelessness 
of  his  case,  for  those  who  went  in  by  that  low 
dark  tunnel  rarely  came  out  again. 

The  apartment  to  which  he  was  committed 
was  only  nineteen  feet  in  diameter,  the  walls 
eleven  feet  thick,  and,  in  memory  of  the  chivalric 
Earl,  it  is  to  this  day  called  Devereux  Tower. 
When  he  passed  the  ponderous  door  his  bright- 
ness of  soul  was  yet  undimmed,  but  a  short  while 
in  that  chill  lone  chamber  would  subdue  it  to 
silence  if  not  to  resignation.  Love  of  life  cannot 
long  endure  in  such  a  prison,  and  rapid  changes 
in  the  career  of  soldier,  statesman,  courtier,  had 
taught  him  the  uncertainty  of  fortune  which 
hangs  on  the  caprice  of  king  or  queen. 

On  the  19th  of  the  same  month  he  and  South- 
ampton were  brought  to  trial,  and,  as  usual,  he 
was   unfairly  treated.     Even   Lord  Bacon,   to 


l68      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

whom  he  had  given  an  estate,  and  who  was  not 
of  the  Queen's  counsels,  appeared  against  him. 
One  lawyer  compared  him  to  a  crocodile; 
another  called  him  an  atheist  and  papist,  wHen 
it  was  well  known  he  was  a  Puritan.  The  trial 
lasted  from  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  He  was  sentenced  to 
death,  and  on  hearing  it,  said:  "I  am  not  a  whit 
dismayed  to  receive  this  doom.  Death  is  wel- 
come to  me  as  life.  Let  my  poor  quarters,  which 
have  done  her  Majesty  true  service  in  divers 
parts  of  the  world,  be  sacrificed  and  disposed  of 
at  her  pleasure." 

As  he  marched  through  the  streets  to  the 
Tower,  with  the  edge  of  the  headman's  axe  car- 
ried toward  him — the  custom  when  prisoners 
were  condemned  to  die — he  walked  swiftly,  with 
his  head  hanging  down,  and  made  no  answers  to 
persons  who  frequently  spoke  to  him  from  the 
crowds.  He  was  allowed  six  more  days  to  pre- 
pare for  death.  It  is  said  that  Elizabeth  signed 
his  death-warrant  firmly,  and  with  even  more 
than  the  customary  flourishes,  but  she  wept  and 
hesitated  about  appointing  the  execution. 

Meanwhile  where  was  the  gay  gold  ring  given 
to  him  in  the  bloom  of  his  youth,  as  he  marched 
to  Spain  with  the  beauty  of  banners  and  roll  of 
drums,  under  no  shadow  deeper  than  the  folds 


THE  EARL  OF  ESSEX.  169 

of  the  royal  standard?  Many  times  Essex  must 
have  looked  at  the  amulet,  and  in  the  long,  slow 
waiting  sickened  for  gracious  message  or  friend- 
ly sign,  but  none  came.  And  Elizabeth,  too, 
must  have  wondered  what  had  become  of  the 
token;  and  why  did  not  he,  so  wildly  loved  and 
deeply  mourned,  send  the  pledge  and  claim  the 
pardon? 

Early  one  morning  while  this  time  was  pass- 
ing, not  knowing  whom  to  trust,  he  chanced  to 
see  from  his  window,  that  overlooked  the  street, 
a  lad  with  an  honest,  open  face,  which  so  pleased 
him  it  won  his  confidence.  He  managed  to 
throw  down  a  small  bribe  and  the  ring,  and  told 
him  to  take  it  to  his  good  cousin  Lady  Scroope, 
and  she  would  send  it  to  the  Queen.  The  boy 
took  the  keepsake,  but  gave  it  into  the  hand  of 
the  wife  of  one  of  Essex's  worst  enemies,  the 
Countess  of  Nottingham,  who  passed  it  to  her 
husband. 

How  terrible  must  have  been  the  suspense  of 
Essex,  for,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  trusted  the 
word  of  his  sovereign.  The  day  broke  that  was 
to  see  his  execution.  Still  no  sign  of  pardon  or 
reprieve.  Calmly  he  prepared  for  death,  and 
dressed  with  his  usual  care  and  elegance.  He 
wore  a  long  black  cloak  of  wrought  velvet  over  a 
satin  suit,  which  consisted  of  a  doublet  of  bro- 
12 


170      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

cade  with  ruffles  of  lace  in  the  sleeves,  a  silken 
scarf  confining  it  at  the  waist,  short  breeches  of 
satin,  silken  hose,  and  leather  buskins.  Usually 
with  this  costume  a  jeweled  sword  was  worn,  and 
an  immense  ruff  of  lace  around  the  neck.  On 
this  occasion  both  wei*e  omitted.  His  picture 
shows  a  well-turned  head,  with  dark  curling  hair, 
straight  nose,  brown  eyes,  a  mustache,  and  the 
pointed  beard  affected  at  that  period. 

Essex  had  begged  as  a  last  privilege  that  he 
might  have  a  private  execution.  The  poor  pe- 
tition was  granted,  and  he  was  permitted  to  suf- 
fer death  on  Tower  Hill.  The  Earl  was  then  in 
his  summer  prime — only  thirty-three  years  of 
age.  Valor,  beauty,  fortune  had  been  his  from 
birth,  but  failed  to  avert  his  fate.  The  place  of 
execution  was  hallowed  by  the  best  blood  of 
England,  and  there  two  fair  queens  had  laid 
their  young  heads  on  the  block  to  satisfy  the 
brutal  rage  of  Elizabeth's  father. 

Ash- Wednesday,  February  25,  1 601,  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  was  led  to  the  fatal 
block.  As  he  knelt  to  place  his  head  in  position 
he  showed  no  fear,  and  three  strokes  of  the  axe, 
the  first  one  mortal,  severed  his  head  from  his 
body.  He  was  buried  in  the  Tower  Chapel, 
though  some  believed  the  Queen  kept  the  skull 
in  her  own  private  room.     Notwithstanding  it 


THE   EARL  OF   ESSEX.  171 

was  a  cold,  gloomy  day,  one  hundred  gentlemen 
sat  near  the  scaffold,  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
secretly  watched  the  execution  from  a  window 
of  the  armory,  little  thinking  that  thirteen  years 
later  he  would  meet  the  same  fate  in  the  same 
place.  During  this  tragedy  Queen  Elizabeth 
amused  herself  playing  on  the  spinet.  But  there 
cam^  an  hour  of  repentance  bitter  as  death. 

About  two  years  afterward  the  Countess  of 
Nottingham  was  taken  with  an  illness,  which 
proved  her  last.  She  begged  to  see  the  Queen; 
she  could  not  die  in  peace  without  it.  Elizabeth 
came,  and  when  the  Countess  confessed  having 
kept  the  ring  of  Essex,  the  Queen  wept,  and 
then  flew-  into  a  fury,  and  shook  the  dying  wo- 
man in  her  bed,  crying,  "God  may  forgive  you, 
but  I  never  can!" 

This  disclosure  affected  her  so  she  could 
neither  sleep  nor  eat.  The  dreadful  secret 
pressed  on  her  soul,  and  the  old  love  and  long- 
ing came  back  with  remorse  for  tenderness 
turned  to  hate. 

Dreams  of  Devereux  in  his  morning  beauty 
kneeling  at  her  feet  must  have  risen  to  her  sight. 
The  hand  whose  touch  had  made  her  pulses 
quicken,  that  never  drew  sword  except  for  Eng- 
land's glory,  was  laid  low;  the  brilliant  noble- 
man— a    headless    corpse — was   buried   among 


172      THE  TOWER  OF   MANY   STORIES. 

criminals  in  Tower  Chapel,  when  a  word  from 
her  would  have  saved  him. 

Who  may  tell  her  anguish  when  she  lay  on 
the  palace  floor  ten  days  and  nights,  refusing  to 
be  comforted,  haunted  by  memories  of  crime 
unpardonable,  till  death  came  to  close  the  scene? 


Henry  the  Eighth. 

There  was  once  a  King  of  England  whose 
family  name  should  have  been  Bluebeard,  but 
it  happened  to  be  Henry  Tudor,  and  a  proud  old 
name  it  was  too.  Born  in  1501,  Prince  Henry 
was  just  eighteen  when  he  came  to  the  throne, 
and  his  subjects  were  well  pleased  to  see  an  end 
to  the  long  Wars  of  the  Roses,  because  in  him 
were  united  both  lines,  the  White  and  the  Red, 
and  that  meant  peace.  He  had  a  most  fortunate 
start — riches,  power,  health,  friends.  Life  lay 
fair  before;  what  would  he  do  with  it?  His  un- 
popular father's  avarice  had  massed  an  immense 
fortune,  and  the  son  was  quite  ready  to  spend 
it.  He  was  well  educated,  a  bold  huntsman  and 
dashing  rider,  full  of  spirit  and  energy,  and  with 
a  turn  for  letters  and  business.  He  must  have 
had  wonderful  strength,  for  his  armor  weighed 
ninety-two  pounds.  It  is  in  London  Tower  yet, 
is  of  German-work,  silvered  and  engraved  over 


HENRY   THE    EIGHTH.  173 

with  saintly  legends  and  scroll-work,  and  the 
initials  H.  and  K.  for  Henry  and  Katharine  of 
Aragon. 

The  King  was  exceedingly  attractive.  An 
Ambassador  from  Italy,  the  land  of  beauty, 
wTi^^:  "Nature  could  not  have  done  more  for 
.him.  He  is  much  handsomer  than  any  other 
sovereign  of  Christendom — a  good  deal  hand- 
somer than  the  King  of  France — ^very  fair,  and 
his  whole  frame  admirably  proportioned.  He  is 
fond  of  hunting,  and  never  takes  his  diversion 
without  tiring  eight  or  ten  horses,  which  he  has 
stationed  beforehand  along  the  line  of  country 
he  means  to  take;  and  when  one  is  tired  he 
mounts  another,  and  before  he  gets  home  they 
are  all  exhausted.  He  is  extremely  fond  of  ten- 
nis, at  which  game  it  is  the  prettiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  see  him  play,  his  fair  skin  glowing 
through  a  shirt  of  the  finest  texture." 

Bluebeard  had  six  wives.  The  second  is  the 
one  whose  woful  tale  I  have  to  tell.  Early  in  his 
leign  he  married  Katharine  of  Aragon,  a  noble 
Princess,  daughter  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella, 
whose  girlhood  had  been  spent  among  the 
orange  gardens  and  tinkling  fountains  of  the 
Alhambra. 

She  had  a  maid  of  honor  named  Anne  Boleyn, 
a  light-hearted  damsel,  skilled  in  music,  singing 


174       THE  TOWER   OF   MANY   STORIES. 

delightfully,  full  of  repartee,  with  a  laugh  gay  as 
her  costumes  and  dances.  Her  favorite  dress 
was  blue  velvet  starred  with  silver,  a  mantle  of 
watered  silver,  lined  with  minever,  and  on  her 
little  feet  blue  velvet  shoes  flashing  each  with  a 
diamond  star;  around  her  head  a  gold-colored 
aureole  of  gauze  above  a  fall  of  ringlets  rich  and 
rare,  a  toilet  that  well  became  her  dimples,  her 
fresh  lips,  her  teeth  like  hailstones,  and  her  witch- 
ing glance.  Tall  and  slender  was  she,  a  true 
daughter  of  the  Howards,  and  so  ^'passing  sweet 
and  cheerful"  that  every  man  who  looked  on  her 
was  her  lover. 

At  the  midnight  ball  given  to  the  French  Am- 
bassador, the  King  chose  her  for  his  partner 
in  the  dance,  and  Mistress  Anne's  pretty  head 
was  wellnigh  turned  by  the  royal  flatterer's 
whispers  of  sparkling  eyes  and  twinkling  feet  and 
the  fairest  hand  he  ever  touched,  and  then  he 
kissed  her. 

Soon  he  began  to  write  letters,  beginning 
"Mine  own  Sweetheart,"  and  sent  her  a  jewel 
valued  at  fifteen  thousand  crowns.  Then  he 
would  ride  out  to  visit  her  in  the  chestnut 
avenues  of  Hever  Castle,  gallantly  prancing 
along  the  greenwood,  and  sounding  his  bugle  to 
announce  his  approach,  for  he  went  unattended. 

At  first  Anne  resented  such  close  attention 


HENRY  THE    EIGHTH.  175 

from  one  already  married,  King  though  he  was; 
but  the  letters  came  often  and  the  writer  came 
oftener,  and  in  the  dewy  springtime  they  strolled 
through  flowery  gardens  together,  and  heard 
the  nightingale's  love-song  to  the  rose,  and  the 
cuckoo  pipe  her  pretty  note  telling  her  name  to 
the  meadowlarks,  till  the  fair  maid  forgot  her 
honor  and  began  to  think  wild  thoughts.  Wood- 
land scents  and  sounds  were  sweet,  but  per- 
fumed palace  chambers  were  sweeter,  and  court 
minstrel  and  laureate  sang  as  never  did  bird  in 
summer. 

What  a  fine  thing  it  would  be,  by-and-by,  to 
sit  on  the  throne  of  England  in  the  place  of  the 
faded  old  Queen,  six  years  older  than  her  hus- 
band, the  magnificent  monarch  Henry  the 
Eighth!  Evidently  he  tired  of  the  wife  of  his 
youth,  and  plotted  separation  from  her  who  had 
faithfully  loved  and  obeyed  him  more  than 
twenty  years. 

The  tale  of  divorce  is  too  long  to  tell  here; 
enough  that  it  was  done  by  the  help  of  the 
Church,  and  Queen  Katharine  was  ordered  to 
leave  the  court.  She  made  a  dignified  speech 
before  her  judges,  declaring  herself  daughter  of 
a  King  and  still  Queen  of  England,  and  should 
.so  continue  to  the  end  of  her  days.  She  then 
retired  to  the  palace  assigned  her,  degraded — no, 


176      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

not  degraded,  but  shorn  of  her  rank,  and  yet 
loving  him  without  change.  Her  last  message 
written  in  banishment  was,  "I  make  this  vow, 
that  mine  eyes  desire  you  above  all  things." 

Henry  admitted  that  Kate  had  been  the  best 
of  wives;  but  the  old  love  was  off,  the  new  one 
was  on,  and  a  private  marriage  with  AnneBoleyn 
took  place — just  when  and  where  is  not  known. 
The  coronation  was  proclaimed  May,  1534,  and 
London,  in  sleepless  preparation,  made  ready  to 
hail  Anne  Boleyn  Queen  Consort  of  England. 

The  Tower  was  at  that  time  palace  as  well  as 
prison  and  fortress,  and  the  Thames  was  crowded 
with  every  sort  of  craft,  full  of  crews  who  flocked 
to  behold  the  like  of  which  has  not  been  seen 
before  or  since  in  that  greatest  city  on  the  earth. 
Bells  chimed,  music  floated  over  the  water,  and 
thousands  of  flags  saluted  when  Anne  came  out 
of  Greenwich  Palace  clad  in  cloth  of  gold,  at- 
tended by  her  maidens — a  beauteous  sight  to  see. 
When  she  reached  the  Tower  in  the  state  barge 
a  mighty  peal  of  guns  was  shot  off.  The  tre- 
mendous wave  of  sound  broke  over  the  barriers 
of  Katharine's  retreat,  and  oh,  how  the  salute 
smote  the  ear  of  the  neglected  and  forgotten 
Queen,  where  she  sat  mourning  for  her  dead 
sons  and  worse  than  dead  husband! 

The  roofs  and  bridges  were  alive  with  men 


HENRY  THE   EIGHTH.  177 

and  boys,  musicians  playing  divers  instruments, 
and  making  a  far-reaching  melody  of  trumpets. 
The  Lofd  Mayor  and  officers  of  the  city  were  in 
crimson  and  scarlet,  with  gold  chains  round  their 
necks,  and  there  was  no  end  of  velvet,  ermine, 
and  jewels.  Carpets  of  Persia  and  India  hung 
from  windows  and  balconies,  and  there  was  such 
splendor  as  tongue  cannot  tell,  or  minstrel  sing, 
or  painter  paint. 

Henry  met  the  bride  at  the  water's  edge, 
showy  in  white  and  green,  the  livery  colors  of 
his  family.  We  can  imagine  he  looked  right 
kingly,  for  he  was  of  heroic  height,  and  had  not 
reached  the  swinish  shape  that  in  later  years 
made  him  the  likeness  of  a  prize  pig  at  the  fair, 
a  monstrous  brute.  He  kissed  Anne,  called  her 
the  desire  of  his  heart  and  the  delight  of  his 
eyes,  and  vowed  to  love  her  and  none  other 
while  woods  grow  and  rivers  run  to  the  sea. 

Days  of  merriment  and  revel  welcomed  her 
to  the  palace,  and  then  the  coronation  came. 
The  streets  were  graveled  from  Tower  to 
Temple  Bar,  and  freshly  hung  with  purple.  The 
crown  of  Edward  the  Confessor  was  too  heavy 
for  the  girlish  brow,  and  a  new  one  was  made 
for  the  new  Queen,  mainly  of  rubles  red  as 
blood.    You  may  see  it  in  the  jewel-room  of  the 


178      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY   STORIES. 

Tower  with  the  other  crowns  and  the  Kohinoor 
of  Queen  Victoria. 

There  were  vast  processions  of  horsemen,  Am- 
bassadors with  badges  and  decorations,  and  so 
many  collars  set  with  gems  it  was  said  whole 
estates  were  carried  on  men^s  shoulders.  A 
fountain  ran  wine,  and  any — the  way-side  beggar 
with  the  rest — might  put  in  his  cup  and  drink 
his  fill.    Even  the  cooks  wore  satin  that  day. 

But  all  else  was  of  slight  interest — Duke  and 
Earl,  belted  knight  and  high-born  gentleman — 
beside  the  lady  for  whom  the  parade  was  ordered. 
She  was  seated  in  an  open  litter  covered  with 
cloth  of  gold  shot  with  white.  Her  robe  was 
silver  tissue  under  a  mantle  of  ermine,  auburn 
ringlets  flowing  on  her  shoulders  below  the  ruby 
crown.  The  ladies  attending  were  mounted  on 
palfreys  with  trappings  that  shone  with  gold  and 
crimson.  It  was  in  bridal  June,  when  merry 
England  is  merriest,  and  with  shoutings  and 
trumpetings  Anne  entered  Westminster,  and 
was  crowned  at  the  high  altar  of  the  Abbey. 
Royal  purple  took  the  place  of  crimson  robes, 
and  the  unholy  marriage  was  preceded  by  the 
Holy  Sacrament,  and  made  a  sinful  mockery 
with  vows  solemn  and  binding.  Countesses  and 
marchionesses  were  the  Queen's  train-bearers, 
and  the  world  seemed  at  her  feet.    No  warning 


HENRY  THE    EIGHTH.  179 

prophet/was  there  to  foretell  that  the  triumph 
would  pass  like  a  vision  of  the  night,  and  when 
the  blossoming  hedges  had  showered  their  snows 
three  times  she  would  slip  from  her  high  place 
and,  for  her  sweet  lord's  pleasure,  fall  a  headless 
corpse. 

Bluff  King  Harry  was  highly  pleased  with  the 
coronation  show,  and  the  bride,  radiant  with 
bloom  and  happiness,  held  his  fickle  fancy  for  a 
time.  She  was  used  to  admiration,  and  knew 
the  art  of  pleasing.  Studying  the  moods  and 
tenses  of  her  fitful  master,  she  bent  her  finer 
nature  down  to  his.  Did  he  wish  to  ride,  she 
could  try  the  mettle  of  his  best  jennet,  her  glossy 
red-brown  hair  mingling  with  the  floating 
plumes  of  her  hat,  making  a  sunlit  picture. 
Would  his  Majesty  walk,  in  banquet-hall  or 
bower,  on  greensward  or  under  silken  pavilion, 
she  was  ready  to  trip  with  fairy  tread.  Did  he 
want  music,  she  charmed  with  lute  and  song. 
If  the  stormy  ruler  preferred  silence,  she  could 
sit  still  as  chiseled  marble  till  his  varying  temper 
brought  her  lord  to  her  side  again. 

Her  study  was  difficult,  for*  absolute  power 
makes  tyrants,  and  the  King  subdued  to  his 
humor  every  one  about  him.  No  man  ever  ven- 
tured to  ask,  why  do  you  do  so?  He  varied 
court  gayeties,  and  maintained  them  also,  by 


l8o      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY   STORIES 

plundering  churches  and  abbeys;  and  burning 
at  slow  fires  sainted  men  as  high  above  him  as 
the  heavens  are  above  the  earth,  because  they 
presumed  to  differ  from  him  in  opinion  of  the 
body  and  blood  of  Christ.  He  grew  meaner  and 
more  cruel  every  day,  fattened  and  bloated  into 
a  hateful  beast,  and  to  this  most  Christian  King 
belongs  the  fame  of  being  the  first  to  torture 
women  with  machines  made  expressly  to  grind 
and  twist  human  bones.  In  London  Tower  to- 
day you  may  see  these  infernal  devices,  and  the 
rack  where  an  undaunted  woman  was  stretched 
till  the  tormentor  refused  to  turn  the  wheels 
again;  then  she  was  carried  in  a  chair  to  a  fire 
and  burned  alive. 

And  this  was  free  and  merry  England  three 
hundred  years  ago! 

Where  were  the  people? 

The  strangest  part  of  history  is  their  submis- 
sion to  bloody  despotism.  The  time  was  rich  in 
heroes — nobles  come  of  generations  born  to 
command,  who  had  looked  death  in  thd  face  on 
land  and  sea,  and  knew  no  fear;  they  were  as 
silent  slaves.  Thoughtful  men  grown  gray  in 
the  service  of  the  state  were  tortured,  maimed, 
and  crippled.  The  princely  Buckingham  was 
sent  to  the  block,  and  gallant  chiefs  and  captains 


HENRY  THE    EIGHTH.  l8l 

were  racked  for  heresy,  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
King  was  the  pain  of  dying  men. 

It  was  not  the  oppression  of  an  army  or  a 
mob  of  enraged  persecutors,  as  in  France  two 
centuries  later,  but  a  one-man  power,  a  Tudor 
reign  of  terror.  So  the  years  went  by,  and  King 
Henry  went  on  fattening  till  he  could  hardly 
see. 

It  was  written  of  him  a  generation  afterward: 
"If  all  the  patterns  of  a  merciless  tyrant  had  been 
lost  to  the  world,  they  might  have  been  found  in 
this  Prince."  Royal  blood  was  precious  in  those 
evil  days;  all  below  the  highest  were  mere 
worms.  The  court  poet  wrote  verses  that  made 
Henry  the  brightest  star  of  a  constellation  com- 
posed of  Hector,  Csesar,  Judas  Maccabseus, 
Joshua,  Charlemagne,  King  Arthur,  Alexander, 
David,  Godfrey  de  Bouillon;  and  the  satisfied 
monarch  believed  whatever  was  said  or  sung  in 
his  praise,  and  loaded  minstrel  and  troubadour 
with  costly  presents,  jeweled  badges,  and  deco- 
rations. 

Among  Anne's  maids  of  honor  was  a  delicate 
girl  of  exquisite  charm,  and  as  witty  as  the 
Queen  herself.  Jane  Seymour  came  of  a 
haughty  house,  but  had  missed  the  imperious 
bearing  that  was  the  heritage  of  her  race.  The 
winsome    presence,    all    sweetness   and    grace, 


i82      THE  TOWER   OF   MANY   STORIES. 

caught  the  restless  fancy  of  the  ungoverned 
King,  and  so  bewitched  was  Bluebeard  that  he 
determined  to  slip  off  the  bonds  that  bound  him, 
and  lead  another  wife  to  the  altar  and  throne. 
To  be  sure,  he  had  worn  the  light  fetters  of  his 
second  marriage  loosely  enough,  and  how  to  rid 
himself  of  the  tireless  devotion  of  Anne  must 
have  made  him  ponder  and  hesitate. 

Not  for  long  did  he  ever  wait;  patience  was 
not  a  trait  of  even  the  best  of  the  Tudors.  One 
day,  at  Greenwich  Palace,  the  Constable  of  Lon- 
don Tower  suddenly  appeared,  and  announced 
it  was  the  King's  pleasure  that  the  Queen 
should  at  once  depart  with  him.  She  was  in  an 
agony  of  terror,  but  calmly  said,  "If  it  be  the 
King's  pleasure,  I  obey."  Without  changing 
her  dress,  she  entered  her  barge  and  was  silently 
rowed  to  the  Traitor's  Gate.  Under  the  fatal 
black  arch  she  knelt  and  solemnly  protested  her 
innocence,  prayed  and  wept,  then  laughed,  and 
cried  again,  distracted  like  one  insane.  Two  of 
her  worst  enemies  were  appointed  ladies  in  wait- 
ing, in  reality  to  watch  her  every  movement  day 
and  night,  tormenting  the  woful  prisoner  with 
questions.  "The  King  wist  what  he  did  when 
he  put  such  women  about  me,"  cried  the 
wretched  Anne.     Faithful  friends  were  lodged 


LETTER   OF    ANNE   BOLEYN.  183 

near,  but  not  allowed  to  come  close  enough  to 
ward  off  her  persecutors. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  her  captivity  the  Queen 
wrote  a  heart-breaking  letter  to  the  brute  she 
called  her  sweet  lord.  It  is  so  touching  and 
tender  I  give  it  in  full.  The  original  manuscript 
you  may  see  in  the  British  Museum. 

Last  Letter  of  Anne  Boleyn  to  Henry  Eighth. 

"The  Tower,   May  6,  1536. 

"Sir:  Your  Grace's  displeasure  and  my  im- 
prisonment are  things  so  strange  unto  me,  as 
what  to  write  or  what  to  excuse,  I  am  altogether 
ignorant,  whereas  you  send  unto  me  (willing  me 
to  confess  a  truth,  and  so  obtain  your  favor)  by 
such  an  one  whom  you  know  to  be  mine  ancient 
and  professed  enemy.  I  no  sooner  received  this 
message  by  him  than  I  rightly  conceived  your 
meaning;  and  if,  as  you  say,  confessing  a  truth 
may  procure  my  safety,  I  shall  with  all  willing- 
ness and  duty  perform  your  command. 

"But  let  not  your  Grace  ever  imagine  that 
your  poor  wife  will  ever  be  brought  to  acknowl- 
edge a  fault  where  not  so  much  as  a  thought 
thereof  preceded.  And,  to  speak  truth,  never 
Prince  had  wife  more  loyal  in  all  duty  and  in  all 
true  affection  than  you  have  ever  found  in  Anne 


l84       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY   STORIES. 

Boleyn,  with  which  name  and  place  I  could  will- 
ingly have  contented  myself,  if  God  and  your 
Grace's  pleasure  had  been  so  pleased.  Neither 
did  I,  at  any  time,  so  far  forget  myself  in  my  ex- 
altation, or  received  queenship,  but  that  I  always 
looked  for  such  an  alteration  as  I  now  find;  for 
the  ground  of  my  preferment  being  on  no  surer 
foundation  than  your  Grace's  fancy,  the  least 
alteration,  I  knew,  was  sufHcient  to  draw  that 
fancy  to  some  other  subject.  You  have  chosen 
me  from  a  low  estate  to  be  your  Queen  and  com- 
panion, far  above  my  desert  and  desire.  If  then 
you  found  me  worthy  of  such  honor,  good  your 
Grace,  let  not  my  light  fancy,  or  bad  counsel  of 
mine  enemies,  withdraw  your  princely  favor  from 
me;  neither  let  that  stain,  that  unworthy  stain 
of  a  disloyal  heart  towards  your  good  Grace, 
ever  cast  so  foul  a  blot  in  yourlnost  dutiful  wife, 
and  the  infant  princess,  your  daughter.  Try  me, 
good  King,  but  let  me  have  a  lawful  trial,  and  let 
not  my  sworn  enemies  sit  as  my  accusers  and 
judges;  yea,  let  me  receive  an  open  trial,  for 
my  truth  shall  fear  no  open  shame;  then  shall 
you  all,  either  mine  innocency  cleared,  your  sus- 
picion and  conscience  satisfied,  the  ignominy  and 
slander  of  the  world  stopped,  or  my  guilt  openly 
declared.  So  that  whatsoever  God  or  you  may 
determine  of  me,  your  Grace  may  be  freed  from 


LETTER  OF  ANNE  BOLEYN.  185 

an  open  censure,  and  mine  offense  being  so  law- 
fully proved,  your  Grace  is  at  liberty,  both  before 
God  and  man,  not  only  to  execute  worthy  pun- 
ishment on  me  as  an  unlawful  wife,  but  to  follow 
your  affections  already  settled  on  that  party,  for 
whose  sake  I  am  now  as  I  am,  whose  name  I 
could  some  while  since  have  pointed  unto;  your 
Grace  being  not  ignorant  of  my  suspicions  there- 
in. 

"But  if  you  have  already  determined  of  me, 
and  that  not  only  my  death,  but  an  infamous 
slander  must  bring  you  to  the  enjoying  of  your 
desired  happiness,  then  I  desire  of  God  that  He 
will  pardon  your  great  sin  therein,  and  likewise 
mine  enemies,  the  instruments  thereof,  and  that 
He  will  not  call  you  to  a  strict  account  for  your 
unprincely  and  cruel  usage  of  me,  at  His  general 
judgment  seat,  where  both  you  and  myself  must 
shortly  appear,  and  in  whose  judgment  I  doubt 
not  (whatever  the  world  may  think  of  me)  mine 
innocence  shall  be  openly  known  and  sufficient- 
ly cleared.  My  last  and  only  request  .shall  be 
that  myself  may  only  bear  the  burden  of  your 
Grace's  displeasure,  and  that  it  shall  not  touch 
the  innocent  souls  of  those  poor  gentlemen,  who 
(as  I  understand)  are  likewise  in  strict  imprison- 
ment for  my  sake. 

"If  ever  I  have  found  favor  in  your  sight,  if 

13 


l86       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

ever  the  name  of  Anne  Boleyn  has  been  pleasant 
in  your  ears,  then  let  me  obtain  this  request,  and 
I  will  so  leave  to  trouble  your  Grace  any  further, 
with  mine  earnest  prayers  to  the  Trinity  to  have 
your  Grace  in  His  good  keeping,  and  to  direct 
you  in  all  your  actions. 

"From  my  doleful  prison  in  the  Tower  this 
6th  of  May. 

"Your  most  loyal  and  ever  faithful  wife, 

*'Anne  Boleyn." 

The  trial  was  held  the  i6th  May  in  the  great 
Hall  of  the  Tower,  the  scene  of  much  iniquity, 
but  none  so  black  as  this.  The  twenty-six  "lords 
triers"  were  picked  men  who  knew  Henry's  will 
and  pitiless  cruelty.  The  defenceless  prisoner 
had  no  counsel  or  advice  of  any  kind,  but  she 
bore  herself  composedly,  and  fearlessly  held  up 
her  hand  and  pleaded  not  guilty.  The  records 
of  the  trial  were  destroyed,  but  it  is  said  she  de- 
fended herself  with  power  and  eloquence.  It  was 
a  mere  form;  she  was  sentenced  to  be  burnt  or 
beheaded  in  three  days,  at  the  pleasure  of  the  sov- 
ereign, and  was  requested  to  lay  aside  her  crown, 
which  she  did,  swearing  herself  innocent  of  any 
crime  against  her  husband.  Then  clasping  her 
hands,  she  appealed  from  earth  to  heaven,  to  the 
One  who  judgeth  quick  and  dead:   "O  Father! 


LETTER   OF  ANNE   BOLEYN.  187 

O  Creator!  Thou  who  art  the  Way,  the  Truth, 
and  the  Life!  Thou  knowest  that  I  have  not 
deserved  this  fate!'* 

The  whole  proceeding  was  a  bitter  mockery, 
the  deliberate  sentence  to  death  of  one  wife  to 
make  room  for  another. 

She  knew  him  too  well  to  entreat  for  life  or 
an  extension  of  time.  Three  days  more  were 
allowed  her,  and  of  the  hundreds  the  lovely  lady 
had  befriended  not  one  was  bold  enough  to 
stand  between  the  murderer  and  the  Queen.  He 
was  surrounded  by  flatterers  who  compared  him 
to  Absalom  for  beauty,  Solomon  for  wisdom,  and 
heroes  ancient  and  modern  for  courage.  And 
the  same  day  she  was  condemned  bluff  King 
Harry  signed  the  death  warrant  of  his  "entirely 
beloved  Anne  Boleyn." 

In  the  dismal  Tower  she  wrote  her  own  re- 
quiem, so  pitiful,  yet  so  brave  a  thing  few  souls 
could  dare.    It  begins: 

"O  Death!  rock  me  asleep! 

Bring  on  my  quiet  rest; 
Let  pass  my  very  guiltless  ghost 

Out  of  my  careful  breast. 
Ring  out  the  doleful  knell; 

Let  its  sound  my  death  tell; 
For  I  must  die. 

There  is  no  remedy, 
For  now  I  die!" 


l88      THE  TOWER  OF   MANY   STORIES. 

Her  old  friend,  Sir  Henry  Kingston,  was 
charged  to  announce  the  dreadful  sentence  that 
she  be  beheaded  at  noon  the  19th  of  May,  1536, 
and,  instead  of  the  axe,  the  King  graciously 
ordered  she  be  beheaded  by  a  sword;  there  was 
an  expert  in  the  horrid  business  who  should  be 
sent  for  to  come  from  Calais. 

Said  the  messenger,  "I  told  her  that  the  pain 
would  be  little,  it  was  so  subtle;"  and  then  she 
replied,  "I  have  heard  say  the  executioner  is 
very  good,  and  my  neck  is  very  slender,"  upon 
which  she  clasped  it  with  her  two  hands  and 
smiled  serenely;  was  even  cheerful. 

A  few  minutes  before  noon  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land, attended  by  four  maids  of  honor,  appeared 
on  Tower  Hill,dressed  in  a  robe  of  black  damask, 
w^ith  deep  white  crape  rufifling  her  neck,  a  black 
velvet  hood  on  her  head.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed  with  fever,  and  her  beauty,  says  an  eye- 
witness, was  fearful  to  look  upon. 

In  sight  of  the  scaffold  she  made  a  speech, 
resigned  and  gentle:  **I  come  here  to  die,  not 
to  accuse  my  enemies.  ...  I  pray  God  to  save 
the  King,  and  send  him  long  to  reign  over  you, 
for  a  gentler  and  more  merciful  Prince  was  there 
never.  To  me  he  was  ever  a  good  and  gentle 
sovereign  lord.  .  .  .  Thus  I  take  my  leave  of 


LETTER   OF   ANNE   BOLEYN.  189 

the  world  and  of  you,  and  I  heartily  desire  you 
all  to  pray  for  me." 

Then  she  bade  her  weeping  ladies  farewell,  re- 
fusing to  allow  her  eyes  to  be  covered,  and  the 
skilful  Frenchman,  avoiding  her  reproachful 
glance,  with  one  blow  of  the  sharp  steel  parted 
the  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart,  and  Anne 
Boleyn  entered  the  strange  peace  we  call  death. 

The  dripping  head  with  its  soft  silky  tresses 
and  the  dissevered  body  reeking  in  blood  were 
thrown  into  an  old  elm  chest  that  had  been  used 
for  keeping  arrows,  and  carelessly  buried  in  the 
chapel,  without  hymn  or  prayer. 

Again  the  Tower  guns  sounded — the  signal 
for  death,  not  life.  The  solemn  knell  was  music 
of  wedding-bells  in  the  listening  ear  of  Henry. 
Dressed  for  the  chase,  he  had  stood  under  a 
spreading  oak  waiting  impatiently  till  the  sun- 
dial told  noon,  when  the  heavy  booming  filled 
the  air.  "Ha!  ha!"  he  cried,  with  unnatural  joy. 
''The  deed  is  done.  Uncouple  the  hounds  and 
away!"  And  mounting  his  horse,  he  rode  at 
fiery  speed  to  his  bride  expectant  at  Wolf  Hall. 
The  peerless  Seymour,  the  pure  white  Hly-bud, 
in  the  freshness  of  life's  morning,  married  Blue- 
beard the  very  next  day. 

The  wedding  feast  was  spread,  the  coronation 
a  cloudless  splendor;   submissive  courtiers  held 


IQO       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

to  the  ancient  proverb  that  the  crown  covers  all 
mistakes,  and  they  kissed  the  bloody  hand  of 
their  master  and  hung  on  the  smiles  of  the 
youthful  Queen. 

The  sins  of  Anne  Boleyn  lie  lightly  on  her 
now.  Whatever  her  vanity  and  folHes,  she  was 
a  thousand  thousand  times  too  good  for  her 
"merciful  Prince." 

The  fair  Seymour,  happily  for  herself,  died  the 
next  year  after  her  marriage,  and  Henry  made 
offers  to  several  royal  ladies,  and  to  an  Italian 
Princess  who  had  the  shrewdness  to  decline,  say- 
ing she  might  consider  the  proposal  if  she  had 
two  heads,  but  could  not  afford  to  lose  her  only 
one  by  the  axe.  And  it  was  a  good  answer. 
A  German  Princess  married  him,  and  was  di- 
vorced for  Catherine  Howard,  who  was  mur- 
dered as  Anne  Boleyn  had  been;  and  then  came 
the  last  wife,  Catherine  Parr,  widow  of  Lord 
Latimer.  By  that  time  the  King  was  grown  a 
beast,  with  savage  will  unbroken,  ready  to  kill, 
kill,  kill  whatever  opposed  caprice  or  whim. 
She  lived  to  nurse  him,  this  proud  lady,  till  his 
bloated  body  almost  rotted;  he  became  a  loath- 
some object,  polluting  the  air  (I  may  say  the 
world),  fearful  to  approach;  and  she  paid  a  high 
price  for  her  diamond  coronet  and  whatever  else 
came  by  the  death  of  the  despot  she  outlived. 


VIRGIN   QUEEN   IMPRISONED.  191 

Of  the  latter  days  of  Henry  the  Eighth  the  less 
said  the  better. 


Beloved,  these  are  sorry  tales  to  tell,  but  the 
Tower  is  a  dreary  place,  and  the  greater  portion 
of  its  history  was  made  in  barbarous  ages.  The 
historian  mousing  through  the  records  of  a  ter- 
rible past  has  little  pleasure,  except  in  the 
thought  that  these  murderous  old  days  are  ended 
forever.  It  is  now  a  government  store-house  and 
armory. 

The  Virgin  Queen  Imprisoned. 

One  more  story,  and  we  say  good-bye  to  the 
famous  Tower  whose  foundations  were  laid  by 
Julius  Caesar. 

Not  every  reader  of  its  history  remembers  that 
the  greatest  of  England's  rulers  was  once  pris- 
oner there.  When  Bloody  Mary,  daughter  of 
Henry  the  Eighth  and  Katharine  of  Aragon,  was 
Queen,  she  had  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Anne 
Boleyn,  arrested  for  conspiracy.  The  Princess, 
who  could  look  down  a  lion,  clad  herself  in  white 
to  proclaim  her  innocence,  and  rode  to  her 
prison  in  an  open  litter,  that  she  might  be  seen 
by  the  people.  A  sick  girl,  faint  and  pale,  her 
mien  was  lofty  and  defiant.  It  was  but  eleven 
days  since  Lady  Jane  Grey  had  been  beheaded. 


192      THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

and  no  one,  high  or  low,  knew  when  he  might  be 
marched  to  the  dungeon  or  the  block. 

At  the  Traitor's  Gate  the  Princess  Elizabeth 
refused  to  land.  One  of  the  lords  attending  told 
her  she  must  not  choose,  and,  as  it  was  raining, 
offered  her  his  cloak.  She  dashed  it  from  her 
"with  a  good  dash,"  and  setting  her  foot  on  the 
stairs,  exclaimed:  "I  am  no  traitor!  Here  lands 
as  true  a  subject,  being  prisoner,  as  ever  landed 
at  these  stairs.  Before  Thee,  O  God,  I  speak  it, 
having  no  other  friend  but  Thee."  Instead  of 
passing  through  the  opened  gates,  she  sat  on  a 
cold,  wet  stone,  determined  not  to  enter  the 
prison  of  her  own  mother.  However,  the  daunt- 
less maid  was  forced  to  yield.  The  death  of  her 
half-sister  made  her  Queen,  and  she  reigned  long 
and  wisely,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  weakness 
in  the  midst  of  her  wisdom  and  strength. 

Once  in  a  time  of  peril  she  mounted  a  white 
horse  and  rode  through  her  army,  very  stately, 
in  a  steel  corselet,  bareheaded,  her  page  bearing 
her  plumed  helmet,  and  spoke  in  words  unsur- 
passed for  appeal: 

"My  loving  people,  we  have  been  persuaded 
by  some  that  are  careful  of  our  safety  to  take 
heed  how  we  commit  ourselves  to  armed  multi- 
tudes, for  fear  of  treachery;  but  I  do  assure  you 
I  do  not  desire  to  live  to  distrust  my  faithful  and 


VIRGIN   QUEEN   IMPRISONED.  193 

loving  people.  Let  tyrants  fear.  I  have  always 
so  behaved  myself  that  under  God  I  have  placed 
my  chiefest  strength  and  safeguard  in  the  loyal 
hearts  and  good  will  of  my  subjects;  and  there- 
fore I  am  come  amongst  you  as  you  see  me  at 
this  time,  not  for  my  recreation  and  disport,  but 
being  resolved  in  the  midst  and  heat  of  battle  to 
live  or  die  amongst  you  all,  to  lay  down  for  my 
God,  and  for  my  kingdoms,  and  for  my  people, 
my  honor  and  my  blood  even  in  the  dust.  I 
know  I  have  the  body  of  a  weak,  feeble  woman ; 
but  I  have  the  heart  of  a  King,  and  of  a  King  of 
England,  too,  and  think  foul  scorn  that  Parma  of 
Spain,  or  any  Prince  of  Europe,  should  dare  to 
invade  the  borders  of  my  realm;  to  which,  rather 
than  any  dishonor  should  grow  by  me,  I  myself 
will  take  up  arms,  I  myself  will  be  your  General, 
judge,  and  rewarder  of  every  one  of  your  virtues 
in  the  field.  I  know  already  for  your  forwardness 
you  have  deserved  rewards  and  crowns,  and  we 
do  assure  you,  on  the  word  of  a  Prince,  they 
shall  be  duly  paid  you. 

"For  the  mean  time  my  Lieutenant-General 
shall  be  in  my  stead,  than  whom  never  Prince 
commanded  a  more  noble  or  worthy  subject; 
not  doubting  but  by  your  obedience  to  my  Gen- 
eral, by  your  concord  in  camp  and  your  valor 
in  the  field,  we  shall  shortly  have  a  famous  vie- 


194       THE  TOWER  OF  MANY  STORIES. 

tory  over  these  enemies  of  my  God,  of  my  king- 
doms, and  of  my  people." 

No  wonder  the  troops  fell  on  their  knees  as 
one  man,  and  shouted  themselves  hoarse  in  ap- 
plause for  their  Hon  Queen,  mother  of  all  true 
Englishmen. 

The  greatest  of  peacemakers  is  Time.  The 
two  daughters  of  Henry  the  Eighth — Mary  and 
Elizabeth — heirs  of  a  contested  throne,  so  wide 
apart  and  repellant  in  life,  are  at  one  now.  Henry 
the  Seventh's  Chapel  of  Westminster  Abbey  con- 
tains a  narrow  vault  that  holds  what  remains  of 
the  rival  Queens.  Their  tomB  allows  no  other 
tenant,  and  they  will  never  more  be  divided. 
In  calm  after  storm  the  unquiet  Tudor  sisters  lie 
there  alone,  the  leaden  casket  of  Elizabeth  rest- 
ing on  the  coffin  of  Mary,  well  named  the  Bloody. 


VIII. 

A  FAIR  CLIENTS  STORY. 

One  cold  November  night  my  husband  and  I 
settled  to  a  long,  quiet  evening  with  books  and 
newspapers. 

A  furious  storm  was  raging.  I  had  closed 
blinds,  drawn  bolt  and  bar  against  it,  and  heaped 
the  hall  mat  behind  a  crack  under  the  street 
door,  which  long  has  baffled  the  skill  of  the 
most  expert  carpenters  in  Jefferson.  The  chil- 
dren were  fairly  extinguished  in  bed  and  asleep, 
after  repeated  recitations,  at  their  own  request, 
of  a  gay  old  ballad  briefly  setting  forth  the  life 
and  death  of  Solomon  Grundy,  and  the  produc- 
tion of  a  certain  imbecile  conundrum  sacred  to 
snowy  evenings. 

As  usual  in  such  a  night,  I  had  almost  de- 
stroyed myself  in  the  vain  effort  to  guess  "what's 
that  which  goes  round  the  house  and  round  the 
house  and  lays  a  white  glove  in  every  window?" 
This  done,  and  the  whole  house  still  as  a  mouse, 
I  put  the  finishing  stitch  and  ribbon  to  a  pair  of 
baby-socks,   and   set  them   on   the  mantel  for 

further  admiration.    In  answer  to  my  question  as 
195 


196  A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY. 

to  their  being  too  sweet  for  anything,  Mr.  Willis 
responded,  with  manly  fervor,  *'Yes,  presently," 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  Tribune. 

The  wind  raved  and  tore  at  the  shutters,  and 
sharp  sleet  forced  its  way  between  their  slats  and 
rattled  like  shot  against  the  glass  where  "white 
gloves'*  piled  in  deepening  drifts.  Firelight  and 
lamplight  glowed  warm  on  crimson  curtain  and 
carpet,  and  tipped  with  ruddy  shine  bright  mold- 
ing and  polished  mirror.  The  pert  cuckoo  flew 
out  of  the  clock,  flapped  her  wings,  and  chirped 
eight  times.  The  sleepy  canary  stirred  on  his 
perch,  gave  an  answering  cheep,  tucked  his  head 
under  his  wing  and  rolled  himself  into  a  little 
yellow  ball. 

It  was  the  best  hour  of  the  week,  Saturday 
night.  My  six  days'  work  done,  I  saw  it  was 
good,  and  very  good;  before  me  were  hours  of 
restful  ease  and  enjoyment,  and  then  dear  old 
Sunday.  My  lines  had  fallen  in  pleasant  places; 
I  felt  as  though  I  could  stretch  myself  on  the 
velvety  rug  with  Malta  and  purr  in  measureless 
content. 

At  this  happy  moment  we  were  startled  by  a 
ring  of  the  doorbell;  a  time  unheard-of  for  visi- 
tors even  in  a  pleasant  evening,  and,  in  this 
storm,  surely  no  one  on  pleasure  bent  would  be 
out.    We  looked  at  each  other. 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  197 

"It  can't  be  one  of  those  dreadful  book- 
agents/'  I  said,  doubtfully. 

"No;  they  never  make  their  rounds  at  night," 
answered  Mr.  Willis.  "I'm  afraid  it's  a  message 
from  the  Common  Council" — he  glanced  af- 
fectionately at  his  slippers — "and  I've  just  this 
minute  taken  my  boots  off." 

Nora  appeared  and  reported,  "A  lady  to  see 
the  gintleman  of  the  house.  She  vsays  she  will 
wait  in  the  entry  till  you  send  word  if  you  bees 
home  for  business." 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Willis,  in  a  tone  of  vexation, 
"Mike  Brady  has  cracked  his  wife's  skull  again, 
or  Hartung  has  tried  his  butcher's  whip  on  poor 
Fraulein." 

"No,  it's  not  thim,"  said  Nora;  "it's  a  raal 
lady!" 

Feminine  clients  were  by  no  means  rare  in  my 
husband's  law  practice.  They  usually  came  to 
our  residence  instead  of  the  office;  and  the  first 
glance  at  this  intruder  on  our  peaceful  evening 
showed  her  to  be  what  Nora  had  proclaimed,  "a 
real  lady." 

She  entered  the  door  in  a  startled  way — such 
a  wee  mite  of  a  woman ! — and  with  irregular  step, 
which  resembled  the  movement  of  a  blinded  bird 
fluttering  to  the  light,  sought  the  fire  and  held 
both  hands  toward  its  blaze.    Her  shawl  slipped 


198  A   FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

from  her  throat  and  unveiled  a  diminutive  figure, 
shaped  with  exceeding  grace,  frail  as  a  lily-stem 
bending  under  the  weight  of  rain.  A  profusion 
of  light  flossy  curls  hung  below  her  hood,  cov- 
ered her  shoulders  and  fell  about  her  waist  in 
damp  ringlets. 

She  looked  like  one  born  to  wear  soft  raiment, 
to  be  shod  in  satin,  mantled  and  lapped  in  fur, 
and  borne  from  velvet  carpets  to  cushioned  car- 
riages. 

What  business  could  this  tender  girl,  or  wo- 
man, have,  seeking  a  lawyer's  counsel,  alone  in 
the  wild  night,  breasting  ice  and  snow,  jaded, 
numbed  and  chilled? 

In  seeming  forgetfulness  of  her  purpose,  she 
stood  mutely  facing  the  fire,  as  though  merely 
enjoying  its  warmth  and  cheer.  As  we  stood 
behind  her,  waiting  to  learn  her  errand,  the 
mantel  mirror  gave  to  view  a  childish  face,  deli- 
cately molded  and  deadly  pale,  which  could  not 
have  reached  its  first  score  of  years.  Livid  rings 
encircled  eyes  burnt  out  with  tears  or  fever; 
lovely  eyes  they  must  have  been  one  day,  like 
violets  undimmed,  now  faded  and  lusterless.  The 
glance  from  under  their  languid  lids  told  of  in- 
finite sorrow  and  long  despair. 

Suddenly  lifting  her  head,  she  caught  sight 
of  the  baby-socks  on  the  mantelpiece.    She  took 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  199 

them  in  her  hand — thin  as  a  bird's  claw,  and  al- 
most bleeding  with  cold — and  softly  kissed  them. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  sign.  It  was  the 
mother's  kiss  for  her  own  baby  out  under  the 
snow. 

Ah,  thought  I,  the  old  tale  so  often  told!  She 
has  been  deceived,  betrayed,  deserted.  I  whis- 
pered to  John: 

"She  may  not  like  to  speak  before  me.  I  will 
slip  out." 

The  stranger's  hearing  was  too  quick  for  me, 
and  my  words  broke  the  trance. 

"No,  do  not  go,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on 
my  arm;  "let  me  tell  my  story  before  you!" 

There  was  an  appeal  in  her  voice  not  to  be  re- 
sisted. 

"Certainly  I  will  stay.  Now  take  this  low 
chair,  put  your  feet  on  the  fender,  child!  Let 
me  ofifer  you  a  glass  of  wine." 

"No,  nothing — I  want  nothing.  You  call  me 
child;  I  am  a  woman.  Married — or  was."  Her 
voice  faltered,  and  sunk  into  silence.  After  a 
moment,  she  said,  simply:  "I  do  not  cry  any 
more.    I  cried  my  tears  away  long  ago." 

"Let  me  have  your  shawl."  I  took  it  from 
under  her  feet  and  spread  it  across  my  lap. 
"There,  it  will  be  good  and  warm  when  you  want 
it.    Now  take  your  own  time." 


200  A  FAIR  CLIENT'S  STORY. 

Again  she  essayed  to  speak,  and  failed. 

*'I  am  in  no  hurry,"  said  Mr.  Willis,  kindly. 
"Don't  distress  yourself.  You  have  a  secret  to 
tell  me." 

"Yes,  it  was  a  secret;  but  I  suppose  every  one 
must  know  it  soon.  I  have  been  very  ill,  and  it 
is  not  easy  for  me  to  control  my  thoughts.  I  am 
here  for  a  paper  to  show  that  my  marriage  was 
unlawful." 

My  whole  heart  went  out  to  the  bruised  and 
broken  creature.  Misguided  she  might  have 
been,  but  there  was  neither  guilt  nor  shame  in 
the  fair  face  so  young  in  years,  so  worn  by  suf- 
fering. 

I  tried  to  reassure  her,  and  gradually  she 
nerved  herself  to  speak;  and,  addressing  me, 
rather  than  my  husband,  told  her  woful  tale. 

No  words  of  mine  can  give  you  an  idea  of  the 
rapid  utterance,  the  swift  gesture,  the  forlorn 
wail,  "I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  at  the  end 
of  the  story. 

"Why  did  you  choose  such  a  night  as  this  to 
come  in?"  I  asked,  as  she  rose  to  go. 

"Because  I  was  advised  to  consult  a  lawyer, 
and  it  has  been  on  my  mind  so  long,  I  thought 
speaking  would  lighten  the  load  I  bear.  Thank 
you  both  for  your  patient  hearing.     I  came  in 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  201 

a  carnage.  The  snow  is  so  deep,  you  did  not 
hear  it." 

"Let  me  dismiss  it,  and  you  wait  till  morning. 
If  it  is  no  warmer  the  storm  will  have  passed  by 
that  time." 

"Oh,  no;  my  mother  would  be  alarmed;  in- 
deed, to  make  a  full  confession,  I  came  off  with- 
out her  consent,  and  in  my  haste  forgot  my 
gloves." 

"Then  you  must  at  least  let  me  wrap  you  in 
my  fur  cloak." 

I  brought  it,  warmed  and  mufffed  her  in  it, 
and  saw  her  safely  lifted  to  the  coach,  where  she 
sat  alone,  passive  and  desolate,  but  in  better 
heart — so  she  said — than  when  she  came.  From 
that  night  dated  a  friendship,  or  rather,  love,  for 
Anne  Singleton  which  ended  only  with  her  life, 

I  have  never  known  a  woman — and  I  have 
known  many  women — cursed  with  so  fine  an 
organism.  Fashioned  of  clay  well-refined,  body 
and  spirit  were  alike  sensitive  and  quivering;  and 
for  such  natures  there  is  in  this  bitter  world  one 
common  doom.  From  the  beginning,  they  are 
elected  to  toil  up  the  steep  paths  of  life,  against 
driving  misery,  and  to  tread  its  sharp  thorns  with 
naked  feet,  torn  and  bleeding. 

A  few  months  after  our  first  meeting  she  went 
abroad,  and  I  lost  sight  of  her  two  years,  when 

14 


202  A  FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

she  returned  to  Jefferson,  homesick  and  travel- 
worn,  spent  with  seeking  rest  and  finding  none. 
In  appearance  unchanged,  except  that  her  skin 
had  lost  its  waxen  look,  and  her  silky  tresses, 
those  "ringlets  rich  and  rare,"  showed  faint 
streaks  of  gray. 

I  had  opportunity  to  do  her  a  kindness  she 
greatly  overrated,  and  by  slow  degrees — for  she 
was  shy  as  a  humming-bird — I  won  her  to  be  our 
frequent  visitor,  and  she  became  dear  to  me  as 
a  daughter. 

She  was  made  to  love  and  be  loved,  was  full  of 
eager  tenderness,  especially  for  the  little  ones, 
and  had  kept  her  pure  childish  beliefs  to  woman- 
hood. A  certain  native  grace  of  movement,  and 
low  voice,  clear  as  a  meadow-lark's,  gave  her 
address  a  delicate  charm.  I  hold  nothing  in 
sweeter  memory  than  the  little  sing-song  in 
which  she  used  to  read  fairy  tales  and  recite  'The 
Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding,"  to  her  adorers 
— our  children,  Ben  and  Mary. 

Habitually  silent,  yet  attentive,  in  the  presence 
of  her  elders,  she  rarely  smiled.  Now  and  then 
there  were  varying  tints  in  her  exquisite  cheek, 
and  a  quick  flash  of  the  violet  eyes,  but  her  face 
usually  wore  the  fixed  calm  of  one  who  has  a 
long  time  mourned  for  the  dead. 

Her  home  was  four  miles  beyond  the  town — 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  203 

or  city,  I  suppose  it  should  be  called,  though  it 
numbered  only  five  thousand  souls — which  lay 
between  us.  There  she  lived  alone  with  her 
mother,  a  good  old  body  whose  chief  aim  and 
end  appeared  to  be  in  the  cultivation  of  holly- 
hocks and  the  drying  of  apples  in  the  sun.  It 
takes  whole  generations  of  culture  and  refine- 
ment to  produce  such  a  woman  as  Anne  Single- 
ton, and  if  the  gushing  old  novels  were  yet  in 
belief  I  should  fancy  she  had  been  changed  in  the 
cradle. 

Toward  the  town  people  Mrs.  Singleton  held  a 
thin  ice  of  reserve  in  manner,  that  distanced  fa- 
miliarity and  silenced  gossip.  There  was  a  sus- 
picion, named  only  in  the  lowest  whisper,  that 
this  fine  lady  who  had  traveled  everywhere  and 
seen  everything,  had  been  converted  to  Roman- 
ism. Perhaps  the  Mother  Chtirch,  in  its  marvel- 
ous adaptation  to  every  want  of  the  human  soul, 
had  seemed  to  her  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock 
in  a  weary  land,  and  she  had  found  refuge  in  its 
broad  shelter.  She  kept  aloof  from  society  and 
all  churches.  The  gracious  charities,  which 
large  fortune  gave  her  ample  means  of  dispens- 
ing, went  far  toward  averting  heavy  judgments 
from  her  neighbors.  She  was  quietly  allowed 
to  pass  as  a  privileged  person,  not  to  be  judged 
by  ordinary  rulers. 


204  A   FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

Various  elegant  belongings  brought  from 
abroad  made  her  rather  conspicuous  in  town. 
Among  these  was  a  phaeton  of  cunning  work, 
the  airiest,  fairiest  thing  under  the  sun,  light  as  a 
wicker  toy,  graceful  as  the  sea-shell  after  which 
it  was  modeled.  Add  to  this  an  Indian  pony, 
Tecumseh  by  name,  a  genuine  mustang,  ready 
to  kick  and  bite  every  one  but  his  gentle  mis- 
tress, a  brave  harness  of  blue  and  silver,  with  gay 
rosette  and  streaming  ribbon,  and  there  was  a 
turnout  the  envy  and  despair  of  our  whole 
country. 

She  was  very  fond  of  driving  over  the  prairie 
with  Mary  and  Ben,  our  two  elder  children. 
They  were  brought  up,  or,  as  we  Indianians  say, 
"raised,"  on  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  had  named 
it  the  "King's  Garden,"  and  well  was  it  so  called. 
Not  in  the  flower-beds  of  England,  the  tulip 
borders  of  Holland,  nor  even  in  the  pleasant 
land  of  France,  have  I  seen  such  outpouring  of 
vivid  color  from  the  hand  of  the  Great  Master  as 
on  the  sweeping  levels  of  the  Western  plairts. 

From  long  excursions  the  children,  as  we 
called  them,  came  in  at  evening  with  a  fragrant 
load  of  herb  and  flower,  and  garlanded  with  vines 
and  braided  creepers. 

"You  have  a  special  knack  at  this  sort  of 
work,"  I  once  said  to  Anne. 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  205 

"Yes,  I  learned  it  of  the  basket  weavers  of 
Brabant;  but  they  have  no  such  material  as  this, 
only  twigs,  reeds  and  rushes.  There  is  no  end 
of  treasure  in  the  King's  Garden,  and  I  give  you 
the  spoil  of  our  whole  day's  hunt." 

"Generous  woman!  and  what  return  can  I 
make  you?" 

"That  you  lend  me  your  jewels  through  all  the 
fine  days.  Mary  is  a  pearl  which  needs  sunning. 
You  know  pearls  require  air  and  exercise;  lock 
them  up  and  they  lose  their  complexion." 

"Precisely.  Take  them  and  welcome;  but  I 
lay  an  injunction  on  you  to  be  back  and  the 
youngsters  in  bed  by  dark." 

"Depend  on  me,  and  many  thanks  for  the  loan. 
I  will  teach  your  pretty  boy  every  blind  road 
and  by-path  throughout  the  length  and  breadth 
of  Wea  Plains." 

Well  did  Anne  keep  her  promise.  From  the 
day  the  first  dandelion  looked  up  in  the  grass, 
till  Indian  Summer,  with  its  magical  lights  and 
dreamy  mists  lulls  the  world  to  rest,  the  children 
haunted  prairie  and  forest,  apparently  as  happy 
as  though  youth  was  eternal  and  fauns  still  piped 
to  the  wood-nymphs  of  a  new  Arcadia,  and 
Endymion  slept  in  the  moonHght  on  low  West- 
ern hills. 

In  the  heart  of  the  prairie  they  often  met  a 


206  A    FAIR   CLIENT'S    STORY. 

professional  hunter,  who  made  a  Hving  by  send- 
ing game  to  the  St.  Louis  market.  He  was 
skilled  in  the  subtle  mysteries  of  trapping  and 
fishing,  and  had  so  long  been  monarch  of  all 
he  surveyed  as  to  watch  with  jealous  eye  even  a 
picnic  that  had  appeared  encroaching  on  his 
game  preserves.  A  surly  fellow,  gaunt,  mack- 
erel-eyed, "sandy  complected,"  and  freckled  as 
the  tiger-lilies  growing  by  his  cabin-door. 

One  summer  morning  while  I  was  at  work 
with  trowel  and  scissors  among  my  roses,  he 
scaled  the  garden  wall,  which  was  neither  high 
nor  hard  to  climb,  strode  up  the  walk  and  fa- 
vored me  with  a  generous  burst  of  confidence. 
Without  needless  preface  plunging  at  once  into 
his  subject: 

"I  say.  Miss  Willis,"  he  began,  "that  Miss 
Midget  who  totes  your  young  folks  round  in 
the  gay  buggy  had  better  mind  what  she's 
about!" 

"What's  the  matter,  Griffith?  She's  a  very 
harmless  lady!  Only  a  child  herself.  Are  you 
in  danger  of  taking  her  for  a  fawn  or  a  fox?" 

"Not  yet  awhile,"  grinding  his  heel  into  the^ 
gravel,  "But  the  way  she  does  go  on,  it  beats  all! 
I've  saw  her  wade  out  with  your  little  Mary  to 
whare  the  grass  is  higher'n  both  thare  heads. 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  207 

Why,  I  mind  the  time  when  thare  was  blue  racers 
thare  more'n  six  feet  long." 

"You  haven't  noticed  any  lately,  have  you?" 
I  asked,  seating  myself  in  the  arbor,  for  I  saw  my 
visitor  had  come  to  ''talk  his  mind." 

''No,  I'm  obleeged;  just  as  cheap  standin'." 
Here  Griffith  struck  the  classic  pose  of  the  Co- 
lossus of  Rhodes.  "As  I  was  sayin',  I  disremem- 
ber  the  last,  but  the  parayra  rattlers!  Every 
fool  knows  nothin'  can  cure  their  bite,  not  even 
red  ash  leaves.  And  that  isn't  all.  Down  by 
the  swamps,  among  the  skunk-cabbage  and  cat- 
tails, there  used  to  be  hoop-snakes  that  would 
take  their  tails  in  their  mouths  and  roll  arter  you 
like  a  bar'1-hoop,  and  jointed  snakes  that  fly  to 
flinders  at  a  blow,  and  every  piece  git  together 
and  in  running  order  by  sundown." 

"But  really,  nothing  appears  to  hurt  Mrs. 
Singleton,"  I  pleaded. 

"Nobody  knows  when  he's  safe.  I've  tuck 
notice  to  her  ever  since  she  was  knee-High  to  a 
duck,  and  she's  out  a-flyin'  round  every  day,  rain 
or  shine." 

"I  promise  to  warn  the  little  lady  of  these 
perils.    Perhaps  she's  a  trifle  willful." 

"Willful's  a  feeble  word,"  said  the  hunter, 
warming  with  his  own  eloquence.  "I  told  her 
once  she'd  better  not  take  off  them  boots  of  hern 


2o8  A    FAIR   CLIENT'S    STORY. 

to  paddle  her  feet  in  the  spring  branch,  the  first 
thing  she  knowed  there'd  be  leeches  a-hangin' 
on  her  toes.  She  jest  looked  me  through  and 
through,  and  Ben  he  snickered  out  in  my  face." 

"I  shall  call  Ben  to  account  for  his  ill  man- 
ners." 

"Oh,  I  don't  keer;  but  it  'peers  like  that 
young  woman's  no  account.  What  good  is  sich 
people  in  the  world,  anyhow?" 

"What  good  is  there  in  a  rose,  Griffith?" 

"Why  a  rose  is  a  good  for  pretty." 

"Yes,  and  so  is  my  children's  friend.  She 
sweetens  and  brightens  this  whole  country,  and 
the  boy  fairly  worships  her;  and,  now  I  think 
of  it,  she  left  a  nice  fishing-rod  here  for  you,  with 
her  compliments.    Will  you  take  it  now?" 

"Bless  me,  yes,  and  snap  at  it." 

I  ran  into  the  house  and  brought  out  the  case. 
He  unlocked  it,  and  scanning  each  separate 
joint  of  the  pole,  fitted  them  together,  rubbed 
them  with  his  handkerchief,  and  then  burst  out: 

"Well,  I  swan!  That  woman  is  a  rose  and  no 
mistake!  Who'd  a-thought  I'd  a-lived  to  own 
a  bamboo  Chinee  fishpole!" 

"She  has  some  nice  ways,  after  all,  hasn't  she?" 

"Yes,  she  has;  and  many  a  bass  I'll  send  her 
for  this.  Now  I  must  be  a  gittin'  along  to  the 
train."    He  turned  to  go,  and,  after  a  few  steps. 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  209 

came  back,  and  thusting  his  freckled  hand  in  his 
pocket,  said,  sheepishly:  "Maybe  you'd  best  not 
tell  Miss  Midget — bother — what's  her  name? — 
about  the  blue  racers.  I  have  my  doubts  about 
'em, 'anyhow." 

"No;  and  as  you  say  it  might  make  her  afraid, 
so  we'll  keep  it  to  ourselves." 

The  hunter  seemed  relieved,  and  pensively 
chewing  a  budding  rose,  he  inquired: 

"Do  you  mind  the  old  ellum  that  leans  over 
the  creek  by  Indian  Ford?" 

"The  one  wrapped  with  poison  ivy?" 

"Jes  so.  Well,  I  see  her  thare  last  October  in 
the  fall,  kinder  campin'  out,  and  a  mighty  pretty 
sight  it  was.  Ben  he  built  a  fire,  and  Miss  Midget 
she  spread  a  striped  table-cloth  on  a  stump,  and 
laid  a  row  of  blood-red  maple-leaves  round  it,  and 
red  haws  on  green  leaves,  and  black  haws  on 
yellow  ones,  and  a  pile  of  pawpaws  in  a  bunch 
like  them  furrin  things." 

"Bananas,  you  mean." 

"Them's  um.  I  peeked  a  while,  and  heern  her 
chatter  away  like  all  possest;  but  the  minit  I 
hove  in  sight,  she  shet  up  tight  as  a  clamshell, 
yet  she  doesn't  seem  skeary,  neither.  As  I  was 
sayin',  your  little  Mary  said  a  blessin',  then  they 
passed  round  crackers  no  bigger'n  a  minit,  and 
poured  tea  in  baby  cups,  and  topped  off  with  a 


2IO  A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY. 

mess  of  chinkapins  and  hickory-nuts.  A  gay  bird 
set  on  a  swingin'  Hmb  and  winked  at  'em,  and  the 
chipmunks  didn't  seem  to  mind  'em  no  mor'n 
if  they  was  squirrels  theirselves.  She's  mighty 
peert  and  sociable  with  them  sort  of  things,  but 
not  with  folks.    Now  I  must  break  for  the  train." 

"Good-by,  then,  if  you  will  go." 

"Good-day.  Tell  Ben  if  he'll  come  round 
some  Saturday,  I'll  teach  him  how  to  track  wood- 
chucks,  and  some  moonshiny  night  we'll  tree  a 
coon.  I'd  a  showed  him  long  ago,  but  boys  is 
so  leaky  they  can't  keep  nothin'." 

A  timely  call  to  the  nursery  ended  the  par- 
lance, which  otherwise  might  have  flowed  on 
like  the  brook  we  all  know  and  love  so  well. 

It  was  plain  that  my  sweet  Anne  was  con- 
demned in  a  society  where  the  useful  contends 
with  the  beautiful;  set  down  as  ''no  account"  by 
the  housekeepers  of  Jefferson,  who  did  their  own 
work  and  cooked  their  way  through  all  the 
books,  from  Miss  Leslie  to  Pierre  Blot. 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  what  sylvan  treasures  accu- 
mulated in  our  back  yard  that  summer.  The 
flights  of  catstairs,  the  rushes  to  scour  tins  with, 
the  roots  for  transplanting,  forgotten  over  night, 
sassafras  for  tea  nobody  liked,  catnip  for  babies 
never  born,   pennyroyal  for  mosquitoes  never 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  211 

near,  thyme  good  for  all  time,  everlastings  for 
eternity,  and  balsam  for  everything. 

In  tangled  thickets,  dark  as  robber  paths,  their 
bright  eyes  glanced,  and  many  a  dusky  labyrinth 

'  "Made  by  Nature  for  herself," 

bore  the  Hght  print  of  their  innocent  feet. 

There  is  no  cure  for  sorrow  Uke  the  company 
of  happy  children. 

A  year  went  by;  in  their  unconscious  ministry, 
and  under  the  sweet  influences  of  nature,  Anne's 
face  rounded,  healthful  tints  played  on  cheek 
and  lip.  There  was  healing  in  the  wings  of  the 
South  wind,  balm  of  Gilead  in  shrub  and  tree; 
and  bird,  bee,  and  murmuring  water  revealed  to 
her  finely  tuned  ear  snatches  of  the  old  music 
in  which  the  young  earth  answered  the  song  of 
the  morning  stars.  Such  tender  light  beamed  in 
the  violet  eyes  and  brightened  the  pensive  face, 
I  had  hope  that  somewhere  in  the  secret  places 
of  the  King's  Garden  she  had  found,  and  wore 
hid  in  her  bosom,  a  sprig  of  the  herb  called 
heart's  ease. 

One  afternoon  in  June  they  were  gone  later 
than  usual.  The  long,  hot  day  was  spent,  and 
shadows  fell  in  blessing  on  parched  earth  and 
drooping  flower.  Six  o'clock  came,  seven;  tea 
was  over,  yet  no  children.    I  feared  Tecumseh, 


212  A    FAIR   CLIENT'S    STORY. 

true  to  his  Indian  instincts,  might,  after  years  of 
kindness,  play  some  vicious  trick.  I  walked  to 
the  carriage  gate  and  looked  a  little  anxiously 
toward  the  East,  where  a  winding  lane,  by  which 
they  should  return,  led  to  the  broad  road,  now 
fast  growing  to  the  dignity  of  a  street. 

It  was  a  heavenly  evening.  The  new  moon,  a 
faint  crescent,  hung  dim  in  the  Western  hori- 
zon, crickets  chirped  their  shrill  song,  and  swal- 
lows circled  low  in  airy  flights.  The  sky  was  soft, 
the  winds  were  whist.  Opposite  me,  across  the 
way,  a  glorious  forest  of  beech  trees  stood  in 
close  ranks,  with  trunks  solid  and  immovable  as 
shafts  of  stone.  Beneath  their  drooping  boughs 
the  leafy  arches  were  vistas  of  silence,  where  even 
at  noon  light  and  darkness  strove  for  the  mas- 
tery, and  when  the  sun  scorched  like  flame  their 
foliage  was  cool  and  fresh.  There  twilight  trailed 
her  banner  of  purple  and  gold,  and  in  its  shadow 
— the  first  halting-place  of  advancing  night — 
hovered  peace  and  midnight  hush. 

My  watch  was  not  long.  Soon  my  eager  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  rapid  hoof-beats  and  voices 
gayly  singing: 

"There  is  a  happy  land, 
Far,  far  away." 

A  sudden  turn  of  the  lane  brought  in  sight  the 
fairy  chariot,  flaming  with  scarlet  poppies  and 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  213 

wild  eglantine,  its  three  passengers  crowned  with 
lilies  and  embowered  in  an  arch  of  plaited  red 
willow  mixed  with  plumes  of  feathery  fern. 
Every  portion  of  the  harness  was  a  wavy  rope  of 
blossom  and  verdure,  and  Tecumseh  was  further 
embellished  with  a  necklace  of  star  flowers,  his 
mane  braided  with  larkspur,  and  in  his  forelock 
shone  a  big  Miami  rose.  The  golden  light  trans- 
figured each  face,  and  as  the  fantastic  car  ap- 
proached, iris-hued  and  radiant  with  its  burden 
of  beauty  and  bloom,  I  thought  it  the  loveliest 
picture  I  ever  beheld.    I  think  so  still. 

We  merrily  saluted  with  waving  hats  and 
handkerchiefs.  The  children  jumped  over  the 
wheels  and  hung  round  me  with  hugs  and  kisses. 

''Now,"  said  Anne,  ''be  quick,  Mary  and  Ben. 
It  is  too  late  to  drive  in;  unload  your  things  and 
be  off." 

They  gathered  up  their  flowers  and  scam- 
pered away  to  the  house. 

"What  kept  you  so  long?"  I  asked.  "I  began 
to  think  some  outlaw  had  spirited  you  away  to 
Redwood  Forest." 

"I  did  not  notice  the  time.  We  have  been  by 
the  riverside  beyond  the  prairie,  saw  the  mirage 
for  the  first  time  this  year,  and  found " 

"That  the  happy  land  is  not  so  'far,  far  away,' " 
I  said,  interrupting  her. 


214  A    FAIR   CLIENT'S   STORY. 

"It  may  be  nearer  than  we  know,"  said  Anne, 
reverently,  with  a  weary  smile.  "I  have  a  bunch 
of  violets  for  you.  They  grew  under  the  moss 
and  alders  of  the  lower  spring,  a  little  wilted  now, 
but  sweeter  in  death  than  anything  else  in  life." 
She  stepped  lightly  from  the  low  carriage  to  the 
sidewalk.  'They  are  lovely  against  your  brown 
hair." 

She  fastened  them  carefully  (I  have  those 
wilted  petals  yet),  and  after  a  moment's  pause 
reached  up  and  kissed  me. 

Anne  had  never  been  given  to  caresses;  her 
warmest  endearment  was  to  call  me  ''my  friend," 
and  the  action  was  a  sweet  surprise.  I  drew  the 
slight,  pliant  figure  close  to  my  side,  my  hand  on 
her  heart,  and  felt  it  throb  in  irregular,  heavy 
strokes. 

"You  are  tired,  dear,  and  a  trifle  out  of  spirits. 
Isn't  it  so?" 

"Somewhat  tired;  but  I  shall  sleep  well  to- 
night," she  answered,  evasively. 

"Something  ails  you,  little  one.  What  is  it?- 
Whisper  to  me  now,  and  I  will  bend  my  ear  so 
close  even  pony  cannot  hear  a  word." 

Just  then  there  swung  through  the  deepening 
hush  of  evening  the  mellow  chime  of  the  cathe- 
dral bell.  It  was  a  delightful  bell,  made  at  Milan, 
and  bought  with  a  great  price.     Wherever  we 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  21$ 

might  be  we  always  hushed  to  hear  it,  partly  be- 
cause it  was  newly  hung  and  had  the  charm  of 
novelty,  more  for  its  rich  and  resonant  note, 
which  held  the  ear  and  swayed  us  like  music.  I 
felt  Anne  tremble  as  we  stood  in  silence,  listening 
to  what  seemed  a  deep  wave  of  sound  swelling 
toward  us  from  an  unseen  world  close  at  hand. 
Her  head  bowed  as  to  a  benediction,  and  when 
the  quivering  echo,  long  lingering,  died  into 
silence,  she  said,  softly: 

"It  is  the  vesper.  Oh,  how  often  have  I  heard 
the  answering  bells  on  the  hills  about  old  Rome. 
Kow  good  it  is  to  hear  it  here." 

Her  eyes  wore  the  unseeing  gaze  of  a  dreamer. 
They  wandered  over  the  green  earth  filled  with 
the  "pomp  of  glorious  summer,"  then  up  to  the 
sky,  which  vapory  shadows  veiled  in  a  robe  of 
tender  gray.  As  she  stood  in  the  paling  light, 
the  silver  lilies  about  her  brow,  so  fragile  in  her 
evanescent  beauty,  her  appearance  impressed  me 
painfully.  My  motherly  heart  yearned  toward 
the  fair  creature  who  looked  fleeting  as  her  dying 
flowers,  and  I  said,  with  an  effort  at  unconcern: 

"Are  you  going  abroad  again?  It  is  plain  you 
are  plotting  something.    Is  that  it?" 

"No,  no!  To-day  is  Friday.  If  I  live  I  shall 
come  again  next  Tuesday.    Now,  one  kiss,  and  a 


2i6  A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY. 

thousand  good-nights!  I  have  four  miles  to 
make  in  this  dusk!" 

*'Good-night,  pretty  one!  Mind  the  iron 
bridge!    Don't  let  pony  shy  off!" 

She  seated  herself  in  the  phaeton,  and  picked 
up  the  blue  ribbons.  The  pony  sprung  forward 
at  her  touch.  She  looked  back,  shouted  and 
pointed  toward  the  sundown,  but  Tecumseh  was 
on  the  home-stretch,  and  her  words  did  not  reach 
me. 

It  was  Dante's  fair  spirit  wreathing  flowers 
with  flowers  on  the  edge  of  happy  Lethe.  I  saw 
Anne  Singleton  in  life  no  more. 

She  died  suddenly  and  alone.  Physicians 
thought,  and  I  suppose  truly,  it  was  of  heart-dis- 
ease. Among  her  effects  was  found  a  small 
Roman  cabinet,  sealed  and  addressed  to  me. 
With  many  tears  I  opened  it,  and  the  first  thing 
my  glance  fell  on  was  a  sealed  envelope  marked, 
"My  Husband."  It  held  a  locket  of  plain  gold, 
containing  a  ring  of  shining  hair,  and  the  minia- 
ture of  a  young  man — a  serene,  poetic  face  of 
surpassing  beauty. 

Possibly  the  artist  had  idealized  his  subject, 
but  one  does  not  see  three  such  heads  in  a  life- 
time. Its  graceful  outline  was  relieved  against 
a  background  of  dark  blue;  the  deep,  Judean 
eyes  were  managed  with  wonderful  skill,  in  life 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  217 

they  must  have  shone  with  steady  luster;  the 
forehead,  ample,  but  not  too  high;  the  hair  and 
beard,  colored  the  peculiar  reddish-brown  famil- 
iar to  the  old  masters'  pencils.  Only  a  nimbus 
was  lacki-ng  to  make  the  pictorial  face  a  close 
copy  of  Murillo's  "Ruler  of  the  Marriage  Feast  in 
Cana." 

Under  the  portrait  were  a  few  trinkets — sou- 
venirs of  travel — mainly  of  Florentine  work.  An 
ivory  crucifix;  a  package  of  letters,  perfumed, 
like  the  dead,  with  heliotrope  and  tuberose;  and 
a  journal  kept  at  intervals  over  a  period  of  six 
years.  It  touched  me  deeply  to  find  the  last  note 
in  it  was  made  but  a  few  days  before  our  final 
parting.  In  fresh  ink  below  it  was  written,  "I 
leave  this  to  you,  my  friend,  because  I  cannot 
burn  what  is  so  dear  to  me." 

From  these  broken,  scattered  threads  I  have 
woven  the  brief  history,  which  is  most  naturally 
repeated,  as  the  greater  portion  came  to  me,  in 
the  first  person. 

***** 

I  have  no  recollection  of  my  father.  I  cannot 
remember  beyond  a  time  when  my  mother  and 
I  lived  alone  in  a  little  cottage  near  a  maple- 
grove,  beyond  which  the  prairie — a  flowery 
savanna — rolled  away  to  the  edge  of  a  river, 
whose  course  could  be  easily  traced  by  the  white 

15 


2i8  A   FAIR   CLIENT'S   STORY. 

fog  in  summer,  the  black  line  in  winter.  I  grew 
up  with  slight  restraint  or  control,  a  lonely  child, 
given  to  idleness  and  dreaming,  and  the  prairie 
was  my  garden,  my  playground  and  companion. 
Sometimes  I  fancied  it  was  a  sea,  stretching  to 
the  Eastern  horizon;  the  groves  dotting  its  sur- 
face were  regions  like  the  Fortunate  Isles  oi  the 
story  books,  blossoming  in  fadeless  splendor, 
filled  with  spicery,  myrrh  and  balm,  whose  faint 
odors  reached  me  in  summer  evenings.  Though 
seeming  near,  I  knew  they  were  miles  away, 
and  longed  to  break  the  mystery  that  shrouded 
them,  and  explore  the  rich  solitudes  which  prom- 
ised everything  to  my  imagination.  When  the 
rank  grass  was  taller  than  my  head,  I  knew  where 
fern-leaves  grew  broadest,  where  strawberries 
were  sweetest,  and  loved  to  watch  a  shower,  and 
run  before  wind  and  rain  into  the  house.  But  I 
loved  the  prairie  best  in  hot  August  days,  when 
before  my  dazzled  eyes  uprose  the  wonderful 
mirage;  fairy  towers  and  palaces,  silver  fountains 
and  plumy  palms  hanging  in  mid-air  over  the 
green  waves  of  verdure.  I  filled  those  airy  cas- 
tles with  princes  and  paladins,  heroes  and  cru- 
saders, and  in  girlish  dreaming,  fancied  a 
mounted  knight  in  bright  armor,  with  flashing 
sword  and  spur,  would  some  day  dash  up  to  the 
door,  swing  me  into  the  saddle,  and  gallop  away 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  219 

with  me  to  the  great  world  which  lay  hidden 
beyond  the  river.  Thus  I  grew  to  womanhood  in 
the  wild  beauty  of  the  prairie;  its  bloom  on  my 
cheek,  its  freedom  in  my  step,  and,  I  would  will- 
ingly believe,  some  poption  of  its  sweetness  in  my 
heart  and  soul. 

The  mailed  knight  on  the  coal-black  steed  tar- 
ried so  long  on  the  mountain  I  quit  looking  for 
him,  and  met  my  destiny  in  the  guise  of  a  mer- 
chant of  New  York.  It  was  at  a  small  party 
given  by  one  of  my  schoolmates  in  the  neighbor- 
ing village.  The  word  beautiful  is  rarely  applied 
to  men,  but  it  rightfully  belonged  to  William  Sin- 
gleton. The  turn  of  his  head  and  shoulders  was 
peculiarly  graceful,  the  color  of  his  hair  and 
beard  precisely  that  I  have  since  seen  in  Old 
World  pictures  of  Christ,  "the  color  of  a  ripe 
filbert,"  as  Lentulus  described  it. 

Something  of  city  polish  and  refinement 
marked  him  from  the  rustics  about  him;  he 
entered  heartily  into  our  sports,  and  when  the 
evening's  fun  was  at  its  height  a  game  of  romps 
was  proposed,  and,  amid  shouts  of  laughter,  Mr. 
Singleton  was  blindfolded.  The  room  was  too 
crowded  for  escape,  and  I  was  soon  caught. 

"It  is  the  little  lady  in  blue,"  said  he,  holding 
my  arm  tightly,  "I  don't  know  her  name,  but 
now  she  must  sit  down." 


220  A   FAIR   CLIENT'S   STORY. 

I  did  so,  and  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain 
watched  the  progress  of  the  game.  It  mattered 
little  who  was  caught  or  who  struggled  away,  I 
saw  only  the  dark  eyes,  the  princely  brow,  the 
chestnut  hair  of  William  Singleton;  heard  but 
the  one  voice  which  touched  my  ear  and  subdued 
my  soul  as  the  South  wind  quieteth  the  earth. 
He  drew  me  as  by  subtle  magnetism,  and  in  that 
hour  all  the  currents  of  my  being  set  toward  the 
graceful  stranger. 

He  walked  home  with  me,  the  way  was  long, 
he  talked  like  one  well  pleased,  and  at  parting 
asked  leave  to  visit  me.  In  Jefferson  society 
scant  ceremony  sufficed,  and  the  permission  was 
readily  given.  He  called  next  day,  and  the 
fourth  day  after  our  first  meeting  I  sat  in  the 
latticed  porch  idly  gazing  at  the  Western  sky, 
then  ablaze  with  yellow  light,  which  gilded  the 
long  grass  and  groves  which  lay  in  the  level  ex- 
panse like  "Summer  isles  of  Eden." 

A  narrow  footpath  wound  across  the  open 
meadow,  and  slowly,  as  one  oppressed  with 
thought,  I  saw  Mr.  Singleton  approach.  Though 
unrevealed  by  word  or  sign,  I  knew  he  sought 
me,  and  why.  Some  presence  or  intelligence, 
spirit  of  earth  or  air,  whispered  the  coming 
secret. 

We  sat  in  the  porch  together,  and  he  made  a 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  221 

passionate  declaration  of  love,  which  I  heard 
without  affectation  of  surprise  or  indifference. 
He  said  his  life  had  been  one  long  disappoint- 
ment, his  aims  bafffed  from  first  to  last. 

"li  the  sunny  places  dreamed  of  in  childhood 
were  spread  for  me,  I  never  found  them,  till  now 
I  seem  to  be  nearing  a  sweet  resting  place."  He 
paused,  trembling  visibly,  while  I  held  my  breath 
to  hear.  "I  love  you,  truly,  as  I  could  after  a 
year's  acquaintance.  Has  hope  befooled  me? 
If  you  are  not  promised  to  another,  give  me  a 
little  love  now,  more  by-and-by;  for  this  mo- 
ment, Anne  Raymond,  you  are  dear  to  me  as  my 
own  soul." 

He  snatched  my  hand  fiercely  as  if  I  had  in- 
tended to  break  away,  but  I  had  no  such  pur- 
pose. I  frankly  looked  into  the  dark,  bright 
eyes,  and  said: 

"I  have  loved  you  from  the  first,  and  shall  love 
you  to  the  last." 

He  wrapped  me  in  his  arms  and  covered  my 
face  with  lingering  kisses.  Oh,  why  did  I  not  die 
in  that  hour?  his  cheek  against  mine,  his  voice 
in  my  ear,  murmuring  words  from  the  first  love 
song: 

'Thou  art  all  fair,  my  love;  there  is  no  spot  in 
thee !  My  dove,  my  undefiled  is  but  one,  she  is 
the  only  one  of  her  mother." 


222  A    FAIR   CLIENT'S    STORY. 

Evening  fell  round  us,  myriad  voices  of  bird 
and  insect  echoed  through  the  gathering  gloom, 
but  we  heard  them  not.  We  had  drifted  away, 
whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body  I  cannot 
tell,  and  heeded  nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven 
but  the  rapture  of  loving.  The  noise  of  closing 
shutters  snapped  the  spell. 

"I  must  speak  with  your  mother,"  said  Will- 
iam, releasing  me  from  his  arms.  'In  the  early 
train  I  leave  for  New  York  to-morrow.  In  four 
months  I  will  come  to  you  again,  and  then" — he 
spoke  exultingly — "then,  my  little  darling,  we 
will  be  married." 

I  wonder  now  at  my  ignorance  and  blind  trust; 
at  mother's  consent,  when  asked  to  give  her 
only  child  to  a  stranger — we  were  but  simple 
women — he  appeared  to  us  like  some  Eastern 
prince  come  on  purpose  to  seek  and  claim  his 
own,  and  a  half-hour's  pleading  won  her  to  his 
cause.  We  parted,  not  without  tears,  my  be- 
trothed to  business  a  thousand  miles  away,  I 
to  my  little  chamber  under  the  roof,  that 
thoughts  of  him  made  brighter  than  ever  before. 
Mine  was  the  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  fear. 
I  asked  no  questions,  required  no  pledge,  sure  he 
was  mine,  and  our  union  natural  as  to  live  and 
breathe.  I  never  thought  of  asking  whether  he 
was  rich  or  poor,  or,  indeed,  of  any  question.     I 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  22^^ 

only  knew  him  to  be  young,  beautiful  beyond  the 
privilege  of  men,  and  my  lover.  My  cup  was 
filled  and  crowned.  My  colorless  life,  flushed 
and  warmed,  glowed  with  tropic  splendor. 

The  winter  sped  swiftly.  I  was  busy  tucking 
and  rufifling,  preparing  for  the  future  into  which 
doubt,  suspicion  or  regret  never  for  one  moment 
entered.  It  was  agreed  the  wedding  should  take 
place  in  June.  Mother  should  live  with  us  just 
the  same,  with  only  the  difference  that  then  she 
.should  have  a  son  as  well  as  a  daughter.  The 
bright  hour  came,  and  one  soft,  fair  evening, 
when  the  earth,  long  buried  in  snow,  put  on 
youth  again,  rising  as  to  resurrection,  we  were 
quietly  married.  There  was  no  tour  proposed 
by  him  or  anticipated  by  me.  Whatever  he  sug- 
gested was  best,  and  wherever  he  went  there  was 
my  home,  my  only  home.  A  month  went  by — 
thirty  precious  days,  like  the  thirty  rooms  in  the 
enchanted  castle,  each  more  beautiful  than  all 
the  others.  An  idle,  foolish,  happy  time.  Under 
the  blue  sky,  like  the  protecting  hand  of  God 
above  us,  we  wandered  beside  glassy  ponds  bor- 
dered with  lilies,  and  through  flowery  meadows, 
repeating  the  endless  story,  old  as  the  hollow 
murmur  of  the  river,  sweeter  than  ever  sang  bird 
in  summer. 


224  A   FAIR   CLIENT'S   STORY. 

As  we  sat  in  the  doorstep  one  evening,  Will- 
iam said  to  me: 

"Anne,  my  little  girl,  I  cannot  wait  longer  to 
tell  you  I  cannot  live  with  you  all  the  time." 

"And  why  not,  my  love?  You  know  I  cannot 
live  without  you." 

"Because  of  business.  I  must  be  in  Owego 
three  months  of  the  year^  three  months  I  travel, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  time  am  in  the  city 
when  I  am  not  with  you.  It  would  be  very  ex- 
pensive to  take  you  everywhere,  and  much  better 
to  stay  with  your  mother,  who  cannot  well  do 
without  you." 

"I  will  if  you  make  me,"  I  answered,  clinging 
to  him;  "but  it  is  very  hard.  Indeed  I  did  not 
expect  this,  William,  and  am  not  ready  to  obey 
you,  though  I  promised  so  lately  to  do  it." 

A  whippoorwill  set  up  his  boding  cry  in  the 
willows,  and  the  dismal  notes  fell  on  my  ear  like 
a  dirge. 

"A  bird  of  ill  omen,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  believe  in  signs.  If  you  do, 
look  at  the  lovely  light  in  the  West  and  take  that 
as  a  sign  of  safe  return  and  long  reunion."  He 
drew  me  to  him  closer,  and  added:  "Tell  me. 
sweet,  if  a  stranger  should  come  and  tell  you  of 
a  crime  I  had  committed,  would  you  believe  in 
me  all  the  same?" 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  225 

"I  took  you  for  life  and  death;  but  what  a 
question.    Have  you  murdered  somebody?" 

I  laughed  and  smoothed  his  clustering  hair, 
those  beautiful  silken  locks,  without  misgiving. 
Lovers  always  talk  so,  I  thought. 

"Would  you  believe  the  tale?"  he  asked  earn- 
estly. 

"Would  I?  Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  lightly.  "I  would 
believe  you  murdered  a  lone  traveler,  robbed 
him,  cut  off  his  finger  for  the  ring,  and  buried 
him  under  the  stones  of  the  hearth.  Yes,  I  warn 
you  I  shall  believe  the  story  when  it  comes,  and 
then  I  shall  leave  you  for  ever  and  a  day." 

In  the  dying  twilight  I  saw  his  face  change, 
and  made  haste  to  say: 

"I  was  only  laughing  at  you,  foolish  boy. 
Though  all  the  world  should  forsake  you,  I 
should  never." 

Oh,  how  my  young  heart  bowed  down  to  that 
man  who  was  to  me  an  embodied  day-dream!  It 
was  pure  idolatry.  I  could  have  laid  all  the 
crowns  of  earth  at  his  feet,  and  anointed  them 
with  my  lifeblood  had  he  demanded  so  high  a 
sacrifice. 

He  left  me  the  day  afterward,  and  long  sep- 
aration followed,  cheered  by  hopeful  words  for 
the  hour  of  my  great  trial — a  trial  without  re- 
ward, for  my  baby  never  breathed.    We  laid  the 


226  A  FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

little  waxen  image  away  under  the  ice  and  snow, 
and  mourned  for  it  with  bitter  tears.  The  fairy 
socks  and  dainty  embroideries,  worked  with  lov- 
ing care,  were  sprinkled  with  rose-leaves  and  lav- 
ender, locked  in  a  drawer  which  seemed  like  a 
grave,  and  so  that  dream  died. 

Health  returned  slowly,  but  sickness  had  a 
charm,  for  it  brought  me  nearer,  if  that  could  be, 
to  my  husband,  and  no  one  was  ever  petted, 
caressed,  indulged  more  than  I  was.  I  think 
William  must  have  been  happy,  too,  as  he  sat 
through  long  hours  in  silence,  better  than  other's 
speech,  holding  my  wasted  hand  in  his  own.  I 
had  reached  a  tranquil  pause,  a  calm  resting  in 
the  present.  A  peace  fell  on  me,  deep  as  the  old 
Pilgrim's  after  he  had  passed  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death,  and  lay  down  and  slept  in  a- 
meadow  curiously  beautified  with  lilies,  and  it 
was  green  all  the  year  long. 

But  this  could  not  last,  and  the  day  came 
when  business  claimed  my  husband  once  more. 
Softly  fell  the  dews  of  that  last  evening.  Let 
me  linger  a  moment  over  the  dear,  remembered 
picture.  I  see  it  yet,  the  low  cottage  shaded  by 
wild  vines  that  climbed  to  its  roof,  the  grassy 
lawn  sloping  to  the  fence  by  the  roadside,  be- 
yond it  the  prairie,  blooming  in  tangled  luxuri- 
ance down  to  the  black  line  of  the  river.    The 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  2.2^ 

world  without  us  might  be  dull  and  dreary,  but 
ours  was  all  peace  and  love. 

We  sat  by  an  open  window,  through  which  the 
breeze  brought  health  and  perfume,  the  voices  of 
robins  calling  their  young,  and  the  rush  and 
roar  of  the  river,  now  swollen  by  spring  rains. 
My  heart  was  full,  and  my  voice  faltered  as  I 
asked,  for  the  hundredth  time: 

"May  I  go  with  you,  my  love?" 

"I  do  not  know,  child.  Some  day,  when  it 
seems  best — some  day,"  he  repeated,  dreamily, 
as  if  talking  with  himself;  "if  not  here,  up  yon- 
der," and  he  pointed  to  the  evening  star,  twink- 
ling pale  in  the  twilight. 

"You  put  me  ofif  so  long.  Fix  a  day,  even  if  it 
is  a  long  while  to  wait;  give  me  a  promise  to 
rest  on.    When  may  I  go?" 

"Maybe  not  on  earth,  maybe  next  time  I  come. 
My  little  girl,"  he  said,  with  pitying  tenderness, 
"try  to  be  content.  I  do  all  with  a  view  to  what 
is  best  for  us  both,  and  bear  you  a  love  passing 
the  love  of  woman.  Now  for  a  lock  of  your  hair, 
that  is  all  of  you  I  can  take  away  this  time." 

My  hair,  escaped  from  its  net,  hung  in  loose 
masses  over  my  shoulders.  He  todk  the  scissors, 
long  unused,  from  the  work-basket,  cut  a  bright 
band  of  gold,  wound  it  in  a  ring,  and  fastened  it 
under  in  a  locket  I  had  given  him.    I  swallowed 


228  A  FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

my  tears  and  looked  toward  the  East,  radiant 
with  Orion,  Arcturus  and  his  sons,  and  thought  I 
could  welcome  the  death  which  would  give  us 
eternal  reunion  there.  He  soothed  and  quieted 
me,  but  would  not  or  could  not  stay,  nor  yet 
allow  me  to  go  with  him. 

I  watched  his  receding  form  as  he  set  out  next 
day.  Now  and  then  he  turned  to  wave  his  hand, 
till  a  bend  in  the  road  shut  him  from  sight,  and  I 
felt  I  should  see  him  no  more  till  I  see  him  for 
ever. 

Several  months  passed.  I  was  not  strong,  and 
life  without  my  husband  was  as  altered  as  my 
faded  face.  Slowly  the  time  wore  on  till  I  began 
to  expect  him  home.  The  thought  gave  my 
cheek  new  brightness.  I  was  well  again,  and  no 
one  but  myself  should  arrange  the  house  for  his 
coming.  Our  snug  parlor  was  the  very  picture 
of  serene  comfort;  the  easy-chair  of  my  father 
was  in  its  place,  slippers  were  on  the  rug,  and,  as 
the  day  was  damp,  a  wood  fire  behind  the  bright- 
est andirons  crackled  a  merry  welcome  home. 
Train  time  came,  and  I,  too  happy  to  sit  still, 
restlessly  wandered  through  the  house  trying  to 
find  something  left  undone,  but  all  was  in  perfect 
order,  every  chair  in  proper  standing,  every  fold 
of  drapery  exactly  right.  I  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  mother  quietly  knitting,  she  appeared  so 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  229 

unconcerned;  and,  oppressed  and  expectant,  I 
leaned  over  the  gate  and  looked  toward  the  vil- 
lage by  which  he  should  come.  No  William  in 
sight,  but  a  woman  walking  toward  me.  As  she 
slowly  approached,  I  had  ample  time  to  mark 
her  dress  and  bearing,  and  a  dark  presentiment 
fell  on  my  heart  that  this  person  was  a  messenger 
of  Fate  coming  from  him  to  me. 

She  was,  perhaps,  thirty-five  years  of  age,  hard 
featured,  muscular,  sallow,  not  exactly  vulgar- 
looking,  but  common — exceedingly  common. 
Her  clothes  were  costly,  but  badly  chosen  ^nd 
ill-fitting.  She  carried  a  small  valise,  which  she 
rested  on  the  ground  when  she  neared  the  gate. 
Then  she  boldly  eyed  me  a  moment,  and  then 
asked: 

''Does  a  man  named  William  Singleton  live 
here?" 

"He  does." 

"Is  he  tu  hum?" 

Her  manner  was  eager  and  curious,  and  she 
spoke  in  Western  New  York  dialect. 

I  shivered  as  with  sudden  pain.  ' 

"He  is  not,"  I  answered. 

"Air  you  acquainted  with  him?" 

"I  am  his  wife,"  I  replied,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot. 

"You  air,  now  deu  tell!  You  may  as  well  know 


230  A  FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

it  first  as  last!"  She  paused  before  striking  the 
deadly  blow.    ''So  be  I !    Now,  now " 

I  heard  no  more.  I  fell  prone  on  the  earth, 
my  face  in  the  dust. 

I  afterward  learned  she  lifted  me  in  her  arms 
and  carried  me  into  the  house,  where  she  ex- 
plained to  mother  that  she  was  the  true  Mrs. 
William  Singleton — married  ten  years  ago;  had 
heard  a  rumor  of  this  marriage,  and,  after  finding 
an  empty  envelope  post-marked  "J^^^^'^on,  In- 
diana," determined  to  know  the  truth.  She  set 
out  at  once.    The  result  is  already  known. 

The  story  was  told  without  much  feeling,  and 
the  woman,  coarse  but  kindly,  said:  ''She  didn't 
know  how  Bill  could  make  up  his  mind  to  act 
so,  and  was  very  sorry  she  hadn't  broke  it  easier 
to  the  poor  young  thing!" 

Mother  was  easily  moved,  and  invited  the 
stranger  to  remain  with  her,  instead  of  returning 
to  the  hotel.  She  did  so,  and  for  one  night  two 
wives  of  the  same  husband  slept  under  one  roof. 

And  I  ?  How  truly  has  it  been  written  of  utter, 
utter  misery,  that  it  cannot  be  remembered?  A 
horror  of  great  darkness  fell  on  me — the  black- 
ness of  desolation!  A  deluge  had  rushed  over 
my  world.  Above  its  wreck  no  light  of  sun  or 
star,  sign  of  promise,  dove  or  olive!  Bless  you, 
dear  mother,  for  your  gentle  nursing,  that,  little 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  231 

by  little,  raised  me  from  prostration  of  mind  and 
body,  and  won  me  back  to  life  again.  I  went 
down  into  the  very  gajes  of  Death  and  looked 
in  his  face;  I  lay  ki  his  lap  and  slept  in  his  outer 
chambers. 

A  letter  came,  and  my  feeble  pulses  fluttered  at 
sight  of  the  familiar  handwriting,  but  weeks  went 
by  before  I  could  gain  courage  to  break  the  seal. 
I  smoothed  the  envelope  as  though  it  had  been 
a  living  thing  that  could  feel  caresses.  Many 
times  I  kissed  it;  many  days  carried  it  in  my 
bosom  pressed  close  to  my  aching  breast!  I 
longed  to  open  it,  but  was  afraid.  How  could 
he  explain  his  deceit  so  I  could — as  I  must — for- 
give him?  Broken  in  heart  and  body,  moaning 
and  well-nigh  dead,  I  yet  kept  one  thought  which 
saved  me  from  madness.  I  had  loved  and  been 
beloved. 

At  last,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lamp,  while  my 
wornout  mother  was  buried  in  sleep,  I  unsealed 
the  revelation.  Still  and  solemn  was  the  night, 
dread  the  moment,  as  when  the  seventh  seal  was 
broken  and  there  was  silence  in  heaven  for  the 
space  of  half  an  hour. 

The  letter  was  long;  explaining  how,  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  country,  William  thought  he 
had  loved  a  woman  four  years  his  senior;  a  boy- 
ish penchant,  that  would  have  died  and  been 


232  A   FAIR   CLIENT'S   STORY. 

forgotten,  but  under  a  hasty  and  mistaken  im- 
pulse they  were  married: 

"At  the  time  I  had  no  one  to  compare  with 
Ellen,  and  as  my  observation  enlarged  and 
showed  me  of  what  coarse  fiber  and  make  the 
companion  I  had  chosen  for  life's  journey  really 
was,  I  speedily  rued  my  folly.  Had  we  children 
they  might  have  brought  us  together,  but  this 
was  denied  us,  and,  as  I  grew  older,  I  grew 
away  from  her,  and  wore  the  marriage-bond  not 
as  a  rosy  garland,  but  a  heavy  fetter,  dragging 
me  down  to  the  very  dust.  I  tried  to  be  just 
and  kind,  and  believe  I  was,  in  every  outward 
sign.  She  was  easily  satisfied,  and  a  happy  ob- 
tuseness  prevented  a  sense  of  inferiority  on  her 
part  or  of  coldness  on  mine. 

"Artfully  I  veiled  my  disappointment,  and, 
having  accepted  this  order  of  things,  I  thought 
by  doing  my  whole  duty  to  find  in  that  difHcult 
path  all  the  happiness  destined  for  my  portion. 
My  heart  grew  hard  and  indifferent,  but  never 
swerved  from  its  allegiance  to  her,  and,  after 
years  of  trial,  I  believed  myself  beyond  the  reach 
of  temptation. 

"I  saw  you  and  the  delusion  burst.  To  a  ter- 
rible blunder  I  determined  to  add  foul  crime, 
but  never  did  I  mean  to  torture  you,  my  darling. 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  233 

my  darling!  Some  day  I  thought  she  would  die, 
and  then  you  could  be  lawfully  my  own.  She 
die!  The  very  birds  of  the  air  would  carry  my 
hideous  secret.  Fool,  fool!  that  I  was,  and 
bHnd!  She  had  the  strength  of  ten  such  women 
as  you,  and  resolution  enough  to  strangle  me  in 
my  sleep  if  once  she  willed  it. 

"Forgive  me  for  your  abused  trust,  your 
blighted  life,  your  ruined  name.  I  have  no  ex- 
cuse but  the  mad  passion  which  possessed  me 
when  I  recognized  in  you  all  my  nature  de- 
manded but  never  found  in  her.  Do  you  re- 
member the  old  verse  I  used  to  sing  under  the 
clematis  by  the  porch? — 

"  'Thou  art  all  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine; 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  are  mine.' 

"But  this  is  mockery.  The  poets  say  affection 
never  was  wasted,  nor  any  true  love  in  vain. 
The  purple  and  gold  of  your  heart  are  mine  to 
hold  and  to  keep  for  ever.  Blessings  on  you 
for  the  fleeting  glimpse  of  Eden  which  you  gave, 
and  you  alone  can  restore.  That  vision  cannot 
fade,  till  all  fades.  Even  now,  I  look  backward 
to  its  happy  gate,  nor  can  awful  cherubim  or 

16 


234  A  FAIR   CLIENT'S   STORY. 

flaming  sword  drive  me  far  from  the  garden 
where  the  fairest  of  women  walked  with  me,  mak- 
ing it  Paradise. 

"I  Hnger  over  this  page.  Slowly  I  bring  it  to 
a  close,  for  it  is  parting  the  last  strand  of  the 
bond  that  unites  us. 

"Of  course  you  know  our  marriage  is  null. 
Go  to  some  lawyer,  have  him  give  you  a  paper 
to  that  effect,  and  send  it  to  Ellen,  as  a  security 
against  future  visits  from  her.  She  bears  my 
name  and  enjoys  my  fortune,  but  henceforth  my 
arms  are  empty,  for  there  is  none  upon  earth 
that  I  desire  beside  thee. 

"These  are  my  last  words  on  earth,  but  I 
shall  find  thee  again,  sweet  wife!  in  the  better 
land,  where  all  wrongs  are  righted,  and  shall 
be  there,  as  I  am  here — only  thine, 

* 'William  Singleton." 

You  have  seen  old  forests  called  deadenings — 
girdled  trees  standing  bare  and  lifeless,  their 
branches  bleached  to  ghastly  skeletons,  which 
spring  rain  or  summer  sun  will  never  warm  to 
leaf  or  flower.  Such  is  my  life.  The  bloom  has 
vanished  from  it,  and  cannot  come  back  any 
more  than  the  rose  leaves  we  used  to  toss  into  the 
river  can  drift  to  our  feet  again. 

I  wrote  a  few  words  to  my  husband — let  me 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  235 

call  him  by  that  dear  name  still — and  returned 
his  many  valuable  gifts,  but  not  all  of  them.  In 
the  churchyard  is  a  nameless  grave,  scarcely 
more  than  a  span  long,  where  lies  buried  dust 
that  is  his  as  well  as  mine,  binding  us  yet  by  the 
mystery  of  death  and  the  deeper  mystery  of  life. 

Shortly  afterward  an  unexpected  inheritance 
fell  to  us,  and  with  mother  and  her  youngest 
brother  I  wore  away  two  years  in  travel,  finding 
in  the  din  and  tumult  of  cities  something  in  ac- 
cord with  my  restless,  unsatisfied  nature.  We 
visited  Rome,  Constantinople,  Damascus,  and, 
driven  by  feverish  unrest,  flew  from  place  to 
place,  trying  to  escape  memories  which  haunted 
me  like  pale  specters.  We  saw  Karnak  and 
Luxor,  the  splendors  of  the  furthest  East,  and 
with  reverent  feet  trod  the  holy  hills  round  about 
Jerusalem. 

But  the  magic  light  was  gone  from  sea  and 
land.  There  was  no  thrill  when  I  rested  my  hand 
on  the  stone  where  the  Savior  of  the  world 
might  have  lain.  Coldly  I  looked  on  Gethsem- 
ane  and  Calvary,  wearily  I  rocked  in  the  fairy 
boats  of  the  Adriatic,  and  names  whose  glory  has 
filled  the  earth,  legend,  fable  and  story,  all  the 
siren  songs  of  the  Mediterranean,  fell  on  listless 
ears. 

I   thirsted  for  the  cool  springs  of  my  own 


236  A  FAIR  CLIENT'S   STORY. 

meadow  brook;  in  dreams  gathered  lily  buds  and 
bells,  and  sat  among  the  purple  water  flags  and 
dipped  my  fevered  feet  in  the  golden-brown  rip- 
ples that  rose  to  kiss  them.  Better  to  me  the 
prairie  breeze,  with  its  fresh  scents  of  spicewood, 
mint  and  calamus,  than  all  ^olian  airs,  wafted 
from  summer  seas  across  the  soft  Campania.  So 
I  came  home  to  them  as  the  tired  child  to  its 
mother. 

Time,  the  consoler,  laid  his  hand  on  my  heart, 
stilling  its  pulses  to  quiet,  healthful  beating,  and 
I  settled  to  the  calm  duties  of  the  kind  of  life  the 
world  gives  those  of  whom  it  significantly  says, 
*'She  has  been  disappointed." 

I  have  health,  one  tried  friend  not  bound  to 
me  by  ties  of  blood,  and  mother  love,  the  daily 
manna  of  the  wilderness.  Yesterday  a  news- 
paper paragraph  (she  sent  it)  announced  the 
death  of  William  Singleton.  I  had  thought  my 
love,  too,  was  cold  and  dead,  but  it  stirred  under 
its  winding-sheet,  uncovered  its  face,  rose  and 
stood  before  me  in  the  light  of  morning. 

Through  the  long  afternoon  I  threaded  famil- 
iar paths  beside  glittering  waters,  and  listened  to 
words  like  old  remembered  music  heard  in  the 
stillness  of  summer  nights.  The  risen  dead,  be- 
loved of  my  soul,  went  with  me.  I  saw  the  per- 
fect face,  with  its  divine  eyes,  so  like  the  King 


A    FAIR    CLIENT'S    STORY.  237 

in  His  beauty.  I  leaned  on  my  beloved,  and  in 
the  purple  twilight  tiny  hands  waved  to  us  from 
out  the  shadowy  distance.  Last  night,  oh,  happy 
night,  some  pitying  spirit  lifted  the  weight  of 
years.  I  felt  warm  breathings,  soft  touches  of 
my  baby  that  died  without  the  light,  and  under 
the  shadow  of  sheltering  wings  slept  as  they  sleep 
who  wake  in  Paradise. 

Divided  from  her,  he  is  all  mine.  And  now  I 
await  reunion,  warned  by  surer  tokens  than  fad- 
ing lips  and  whitening  tresses  the  time  of  my  de- 
parture is  at  hand.  In  the  night  I  have  dreamed 
dreams,  in  the  day  I  have  seen  visions,  and  as  I 
write  tears  dim  my  eyes,  but  they  are  not  tears  of 
sorrow.  Many  waters  cannot  quench  love, 
neither  can  floods  drown  it.  I  look  across  the 
gulf  that  daily  narrows,  and  fearlessly  stand  and 
wait  for — ^well,  ah,  well,  I  know  whose  he  shall  be 
in  the  resurrection. 


IX. 
WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

A  Memory. 

The  Golden  Milestone  has  never  been  set  up 
outside  the  Forum,  and  Rome  is  yet  the  center  of 
the  world.  To  enter  its  gates  after  years  of  hope 
and  despair,  and  salute  it  with  the  freshness  of 
unworn  enthusiasm  is  such  happiness  as  rarely 
comes.  Our  visit  was  made  while  the  earth  was 
passing  through  the  fiery  sunsets  of  November, 
1883,  and  from  the  far  Campania  to  see  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's  against  the  blood-red  sky  that 
flamed  through  the  arches  of  the  Coliseum, 
changing  them  to  beaten  gold,  was  even  a  deeper 
pleasure  than  to  float  along  the  silver  streets  of 
the  silent  city  of  Desdemona; — there  where 
Shakespeare's  spirit  still  walks  the  waters. 

I  am  not  here  to  prose,  guide  book  in  hand,  on 
what  has  been  told  a  thousand  times  and  a  thou- 
sand times  better  than  I  can  tell  it.  My  reader 
has  probably  felt  the  fascination  of  the  Eternal 
City,  but  may  not  have  learned  how  soon  the 
spell  grows  wearisome.  We  long  to  escape  the 
239 


240  WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

cold  companions  of  the  sculptor,  the  chill  of  the 
marble  mountains  of  Cararra  though  wrought 
into  shapes  of  imperishable  beauty. 

In  the  Barberini  Palace,  the  cheerful  home  of 
W.  W.  Story  was  filled  with  the  warmth  the 
stranger  covets,  and  was  like  hopeful,  sunny 
Italy  of  to-day  contrasted  with  the  gloom  of 
dismal  records  studied  in  schools.  Under  the 
church  hard  by,  in  sacred  earth  from  Jerusalem, 
the  bones  of  4,000  Capuchins  are  the  decorations 
of  their  burial  place.  To  leave  these  ghastly 
memorials  for  the  apartments  of  the  poet  so  long 
a  social  center,  ah,  it  is  as  much  better  as  youth 
is  better  than  age,  as  life  is  better  than  death.  I 
do  not  know  the  history  of  the  Barberini  Palace, 
only  that  its  stones  were  quarried  by  Urban 
Eighth  from  the  stones  of  the  Coliseum.  In 
olden  times  famous  banquets  must  have  been 
held  there,  and  perhaps  the  Grand  Duke  himself 
dined  in  sumptuous  state  with  princes  and  cardi- 
nals, churchmen  and  statesmen,  chiefs  and  chief 
priests;  the  heart  and  brain  of  Italy  have  planned 
and  plotted  there,  and  fancy  easily  peoples  the 
ample  space  with  phantoms  from  among  the  gen- 
erations long  vanished.  Lords  of  high  degree 
and  ladies  gay  have  swept  the  halls  in  pictorial 
dress,  and  fiowers,  perfumes,  lights,  music  and 
the  dance  have  made  the  night  festal.    In  stormy 


A  MEMORY.  241 

centuries  past,  it  may  have  withstood  sieges,  and 
the  stone  floor  resounded  with  gride  of  sword 
and  jingle  of  spurs  as  the  lover  bound  for  battle 
knelt  to  kiss  the  hand  of  his  bright  mistress. 

The  Recording  Angel  holding  sleepless  watch 
over  men  has  registered  births  and  bridals  within 
these  walls,  many  unions,  sweet  and  dear,  but 
none  more  happy  than  the  married  life  of  the 
poet-sculptor  I  write  of.  It  is  said  the  duration 
of  a  man's  friendships  are  the  measure  of  his 
worth.  If  this  be  true,  we  must  award  the  high- 
est praise  to  him.  His  friends  never  dropped 
from  their  allegiance,  some  subtle  quality  en- 
forced remembrance,  and  even  the  employes  of 
his  studio  and  their  families  served  him  with  un- 
failing fidelity  nearly  half  a  century,  and  brought 
their  flowers  to  lay  on  the  oaken  casket  of  the 
master  who  was  also  their  friend. 

Native  gaiete  du  coeur  made  him  a  charming 
host,  and  exquisite  tact  brought  out  what  was 
best  in  his  visitor. 

Nor  was  he,  like  Coleridge  and  de  Quincy, 
merely  strong  in  monologue;  he  was,  what  is 
much  rarer,  attentive  hearer  as  well,  and  used  to 
say  there  are  ten  fine  talkers  to  one  fine  Hstener. 
Under  his  guidance  conversation  never  declined 
to  dullness  nor  sunk  to  the  level  of  gossip.  At 
his  table  Margaret  Fuller  talked,  and  led  her 


242  WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

hearers  captive;  they  who  denied  her  beliefs  and 
defied  her  teachings  going  down  before  her  al- 
most without  a  struggle.  There  Hawthorne, 
poet  though  he  made  no  rhymes,  was  beguiled 
into  society,  but  only  when  his  wife  was  near  to 
break  up  the  ice  around  him,  his  morbid  dread 
of  strangers  making  the  sensitive  soul  shrink 
from  sight,  sometimes  to  spend  a  whole  evening 
in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain.  At  meetings  to  which 
every  comer  contributed  were  gathered  Miss 
Hosmer,  Harriet  Martineau,  Thackeray,  Brown- 
ing and  his  ethereal  wife,  now  sleeping  in  Flor- 
ence, the  city  of  her  love.  Rogers,  Landor, 
Leighton — how  can  I  number  the  choice  spirits 
who  held  high  converse  in  the  drawing-room  of 
the  ancient  Palace?  There  were  debates  of  law, 
politics,  science,  literature,  subjects  free  of  the 
vice  of  the  commonplace,  forecasting  the  destiny 
of  Italy,  the  mysteries  of  the  Unseen,  death  and 
life  undying.  Attrition  of  kindred  minds  pol- 
ished and  sharpened,  as  iron  sharpeneth  iron, 
and  Story  was  master  of  the  feast. 

The  gracious  power  of  making  friends  was 
laid  with  other  ancestral  gifts  in  his  cradle. 
Not  subject  to  moods  and  tenses,  a  certain 
sweetness  of  manner  impressed  all  so  fortunate 
as  to  come  near  him,  reminding  me  of  what  Sen- 
eca wrote  of  his  favorite  brother:    "No  one  is  so 


A  MEMORY.  243 

pleasant  to  any  one  as  my  brother  Galeon  is  to 
every  one."  It  was  not  acquired  pleasantness, 
for  the  charm  was  lasting,  and  remained  after  the 
graces  that  wait  on  youth  were  faded,  and  age 
with  stealing  step,  was  nigh.  There  was  no  need 
for  him  to  sing  as  he  did : 

"Old  age  in  others  is  charming, 
In  mothers  is  lovely, 
But  somehow  'tis  not  in  ourselves." 

One  of  his  household  at  this  time  wrote:  "Mr. 
Story  was  a  man  of  such  rare  intellectual  powers, 
combined  with  such  kindliness  and  sweetness  of 
disposition,  that  no  one  was  ever  a  more  delight- 
ful companion  to  live  with."  It  appeared  slight 
effort  for  him  to  do  what  mediocrity  accom- 
plished by  slow  toil.  Whatever  he  touched  was 
beautified.  A  poem,  a  charade,  a  little  play 
thrown  off  to  be  enacted  the  night  after  it  was 
written;  how  easy  it  seemed!  Whoever  has  tried, 
knows  that  the  faculty  for  rapid  and  excellent 
work  is  the  result  of  practice.  Skill  comes  by 
doing.  With  such  boyish  enjoyment  did  the 
versatile  mind  enter  into  pastimes  he  called  fool- 
ish games  that  we  hardly  believe  him  the  patient 
worker  of  whom  Mrs.  Story  said:  "William  has 
not  had  a  holiday  in  thirty  years.  *  *  *  All 
the  world  knows  his  genius,  only  I  know  his 
goodness." 


244  WILLIAM  WETMORE   STORY. 

He  did  not  quit  the  study  and  practice  of  law 
through  failure.  Early  in  life  he  turned  from 
Boston  to  the  only  land  where  sculptor's  dreams 
come  true.  Fifty  years  ago  this  was  considered 
a  bold  move,  with  uncertainty  at  the  end.  But 
he  chose  to  be  a  laborer  in  the  Kingdom  of  the 
Beautiful,  and  must  go  where  there  were  artists 
enough  to  create  an  atmosphere  of  their  own, 
instead  of  living  in  the  arctic  regions  of  Beacon 
street.  At  best,  the  sculptor  is  a  solitary  man, 
though  his  is  the  only  calling  in  which  the  drudg- 
ery may  be  done  by  another.  The  dusty  stone- 
cutters of  Rome,  though  called  mere  mechanics, 
being  often  more  skillful  with  mallet  and  chisel 
than  the  master  who  shapes  the  clay  model, 
where  all  the  genius  lies. 

One  day  in  the  studio  I  asked  Mr.  Story  to 
have  the  work  go  on.  The  cutter  struck  the 
snow  white  mass,  without  hesitancy,  apparently 
a  careless  blow;  but  it  was  of  sure  effect. 

"Does  he  make  no  false  strokes?"  I  inquired, 
for  the  artisan  looked  less  skilled  than  our  tomb- 
stone carvers.  "Never,"  was  the  answer,  "men 
of  his  class  have  a  feeling  for  the  clay  model  not 
found  in  other  countries." 

Story's  rest  was  change  of  employment,  and 
the  ink  in  his  blood  was  stirring  when  he  began 
his  career  as  sculptor.    The  loveliness  of  Italy 


A  MEMORY.  245 

sunk  deep  into  his  soul,  and  made  it  overflow  in 
prose  and  verse. 

Some  forlorn  aspirant  for  literary  honors, 
secretly  making  a  timid  offering  to  fame,  may 
take  heart  at  learning  how  "Roba  di  Roma"  fared 
when  first  given  to  the  public.  A  portion  had 
been  printed  in  "Blackwood's  Magazine"  and 
the  "Atlantic  Monthly."  The  papers  were  col- 
lected, and,  with  fresh  material  added,  were  sent 
to  a  Boston  publisher.  Months  passed  without 
news  of  the  venture.  My  reader  knows  with 
what  fond,  pathetic  yearning  the  youthful  writer 
waits  to  hear  from  his  beloved  manuscript.  A 
year  went  by.  The  precious  thing  could  not  be 
found.  Whether  destroyed  by  fire,  theft,  or  care- 
lessness, none  could  tell,  and,  though  with  little 
hope,  the  author,  visiting  his  native  land,  insisted 
on  a  thorough  hunt  for  the  manuscript.  The 
vaults  of  the  house  were  overhauled,  and  dusty 
copy  in  quantity  brought  to  light,  but  no  "Roba 
di  Roma."  The  search  was  abandoned  as  useless. 
Disappointed,  but  not  cast  down.  Story  went 
back  to  Rome  and  set  about  a  new  composition. 
One  day — a  happy  one  we  may  be  sure — a  heavy 
package  was  received  by  mail  and  proved  to  be 
the  missing  child  so  long  mourned  as  lost.  It 
'  was  before  the  typewriter's  day  and  there  had 
been  no  second  copy.    Then  he  had  the  supreme 


246  WILLIAM   WETMORE   STORY. 

revenge  of  the  sufferer  under  rejected  manu- 
scripts. He  published  the  book  on  both  sides  of 
the  sea,  and  from  the  first  it  was  received  with 
favor  and  his  victory  complete. 

Its  vigorous  Protestantism  made  it  odious  to 
the  Catholic  Power,  and  it  was  proscribed  by 
Pope  Pio  Nino.  Only  through  artful  smuggling 
in  small  packages  did  the  volume  find  way  into 
the  Papal  States,  where  it  was  eagerly  sought  by 
native  and  foreigner.  Its  popularity  has  not 
waned;  still  in  demand  in  Europe,  and  in  the 
United  States  it  remains  his  best  known  book. 

When  we  see  the  author  whose  works  we  have 
admired,  there  is  often  a  sense  of  disappointment. 
He  is  not  like  his  own  ideals,  nor  yet  a  likeness  of 
the  image  we  had  in  mind  and  a  moment  of  sad 
surprise  may  follow  a  meeting  sought  with  an- 
ticipated delight.  There  was  no  such  risk  in 
near  approach  to  Story.  The  man  was  wiser,  bet- 
ter than  his  books.  One  of  the  elect  whom  fate 
had  fitted  to  his  surroundings,  he  put  to  flight 
the  old  idea  that  to  follow  art  aright  one 
must  forsake  father  and  mother  and  cleave 
only  unto  her.  He  loved  "dear  Nature"  and,  lean- 
ing on  her  breast,  he  dreamed  dreams  and  saw 
visions.  In  cool,  shadowy  places,  with  sense  at- 
tuned to  finest  harmonies,  he  had  ears  to  hear 
the  grass  grow,  the  trees  stretch  their  limbs,  the 


A  MEMORY.  247 

calling  voices  of  naiads  haunting  the  oaks,  or  to 
interpret  far-off  music,  the  messages  of  the  winds 
and  the  waterfalls. 

It  was  himself  of  whom  he  wrote:  "He  was  in 
the  habit  of  wandering  alone,  during  the  summer 
mornings,  through  the  forest  and  along  the 
mountainside,  and  one  of  his  favorite  haunts  was 
a  picturesque  glen,  where  he  often  sat  for  hours 
alone  with  Nature,  lost  in  vague  contemplation; 
now  watching  the  busy  insect  life  in  the  grass  or 
in  the  air;  now  listening  to  the  chirping  of  birds 
in  the  woods,  the  murmuring  of  bees  hovering 
about  the  flowers,  or  the  welling  of  the  clear 
mountain  torrent,  that  told  forever  its  endless 
tale  as  it  wandered  by  mossy  boulders  and 
rounded  stones  to  the  valley  below;  now  gazing 
idly  into  the  sky,  against  which  the  overhanging 
beeches  printed  their  leaves  in  tessellated  light 
and  dark,  or  vaguely  watching  the  lazy  clouds 
that  trailed  across  the  tender  blue." 

When  we  met  we  naturally  talked  of  the  new 
book  just  out :  He  and  She.  A  volume  bound 
in  bridal  white,  light  to  the  touch,  fair  to  the 
eye.  Mrs.  Story,  the  proud  and  loving  wife, 
quoted  "The  Song  of  the  Vanquished"  as  his 
best. 

"I  sing  the  hymn  of  the  conquered,  who  fell  in  the  battle 
of  life— 


248  WIL];.IAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

The  hymn  of  the  wounded,  the  beaten,  who  died  over- 
whelmed in  the  strife; 
Not    the   jubilant   song    of    the   victors,    for    whom    the 

resounding  acclaim 
Of  nations  was  lifted  in  chorus,  whose  brows  wore  the 

chaplet  of  fame. 
But  the  hymn  of  the  low  and  the  humble,  the  weary,  the 

broken  in  heart. 
Who  strove  and  who  failed,  acting  bravely  a  silent  and 

desperate  part. 
Whose  youth  bore  no  flower  on  its  branches,  whose  hopes 

burned  in  ashes  away. 
From  whose  hands  slipped  the  prize  they  had  grasped  at, 

who  stood  at  the  dying  of  day 
With  the   wreck  of  their  life  all  around  them,  unpitied, 

unheeded  alone, 
With  death  sweeping  down  o'er  their  failure  and  all  but 

their  faith  overthrown." 

We,  the  visitors,  declared  for  the  poem  writ- 
ten in  the  fervor  and  passion  of  youth,  "Cleo- 
patra." The  very  spirit  of  Antony's  "Serpent  of 
Old  Nile"  breathes  in  every  line.  It  calls  up  the 
commanding  figure  of  Oriental  history,  con- 
queror of  conquerors;  the  fateful  woman  full  of 
beauty  and  of  poison,  who  held  in  check  the  gen- 
erals of  wars  that  changed  the  map  of  the  world. 
This  poem  sings  of  the  enchantress  of  many  lov- 
ers whom  he  had  carved  in  marble,  and  marvel- 
ous is  the  cunning  that  can  shape  a  lump  of  wet 
clay  from  the  Tiber  into  a  creation  so  like  life 
that  it  seems  to  lack  nothing  but  breath. 

Not  many  see  the  marble  woman  whose  heart 


A  MEMORY.  249 

of  fire  never  cools,  but  all  may  feel  the  fierce 
power  of  the  sorceress  in  the  burning  words  of 
Antony. 

"Tell  my  dear  serpent  I  must  see  her,  fill 
My  eyes  with  the  glad  light  of  her  great  eyes, 
Though  death,  dishonor,  anything  you  will, 
Staid  in  the  way!     Aye,  by  my  soul,  disgrace 
Is  better  in  the  sun  of  Egypt's  face 
Than  pomp  or  power  in  this  detested  place! 
Oh,  for  the  wine  my  queen  alone  can  pour 
From  her  rich  nature!    Let  me  starve  no  more 
On  this  weak,  tepid  drink  that  never  warms 
My  life-blood,  but  away  with  shams  and  forms! 

Away  with  Rome!    One  hour  in  Egypt's  eyes 
Is  worth  a  score  of  Roman  centuries." 

Of  the  friends  we  left  in  Rome,  Story  was 
among  the  last  to  join  the  silent  majority. 

The  loss  of  the  wife  of  his  youth,  whom  he 
survived  but  a  year,  was  a  bitter  blow;  and  with 
her  passed  his  interest  in  affairs.  It  was  only 
when  his  children  suggested  that  he  should  make 
a  monument  to  her  memory  that  he  consented  to 
resume  work;  the  design  he  chose  was  the  Angel 
of  Grief,  and  it  is  wrought  to  exquisite  finish,  as 
are  the  statues  modeled  in  his  summer  prime. 
When  this  was  done  he  left  the  studio  never  to 
return.  The  illness  which  began  shortly  after- 
ward was  long  and  severe.  Soon  he  was  forced 
to  stay  almost  continually  in  his   room,   and 

17 


^SO  WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

strength  waned  till  time  became  a  burden  too 
grievous  to  be  borne.  His  best  lover  would  not 
have  held  him  back  from  the  unseen  land  of 
which  he  wrote  so  tenderly.  His  latter  months 
were  a  rapid  decline,  and  October  7,  1895,  the 
end  came.  It  was  in  the  matchless  vale  where 
Milton  first  beheld  Paradise;  at  Vallambrosa  in 
the  villa  of  his  beloved  daughter,  Madame  Per- 
uzzi  di  Medici,  to  whom  were  spoken  his  last 
words,  ''O,  dear,  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  near 
me."  Suddenly  life  forsook  his  face  Hke  light 
removed. 

"the  great  sculptor,  Death, 

Whom  men   should  call  Divine,  had  at  a  blow 
Stricken  him  into  marble;" 

In  the  city  of  many  fames  his  fame  is  secure. 

Near  the  antique  Pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius, 
beside  the  Aurelian  wall,  in  the  dust  to  which  he 
was  drawn  by  mysterious  kinship,  he  sleeps  as  in 
a  sheltered  garden.  Nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
Shelley  said  of  the  Protestant  cemetery  of  Rome : 
*'It  might  make  one  in  love  with  death  to  think 
of  burial  in.so  sweet  a  place."  So  lovely  is  it  and 
so  lonely !  Through  ages  to  come,  pilgrims  will 
pause  there  reverently  under  the  sighing  pines 
and  the  sad  cypresses  that  whisper  their  secrets, 
not  disturbing  the  still  sleepers  below.  Daisies 
and  violets  bloom  the  year  round,  and  picture  the 


A  MEMORY.  251 

sod  where  I  drop  this  poor  Western  flower.  At 
morning,  larks  flood  the  sky  with  melody;  in  the 
hush  of  evening,  when  shadows  gather  broad  and 
dark,  the  love-lorn  nightingale  stills  all  the  world 
to  listen  to  her  tale  of  how  the  rose  has  pierced 
her  breast  with  cruel  thorns. 

The  husband  and  wife  rest  close  together,  and 
near  them  is  the  urn  holding  all  that  remains  of 
the  restless  heart  of  Shelley.  The  body  of  their 
old  friend  Marsh  is  not  far  ofif,  and  across  a 
ruinous  space  is  a  little  winding  path,  ending  at 
one  of  the  saddest  shrines  on  the  face  of  the 
earth, — the  grave  of  the  sweet  wailing  singer, 
Keats.  Round  about,  on  carved  stones,  are  names 
in  various  languages  foreign  to  Italy,  brief,  pa- 
thetic records.  Travelers  from  countries  wide 
apart,  leaving  their  homes  in  search  of  health, 
have  come  together  in  this  consecrated  spot. 

Except  that  death  is  always  mournful,  there  is 
nothing  for  tears  by  the  tomb  of  Story.  A  full, 
rich  life  lived  out,  a  stainless  name  linked  with 
varied  victories,  are  the  heritage  of  his  children. 
The  sons  who  keep  their  name  illustrious  by 
their  own  light,  though  his  has  set,  remember 
him  as  the  playmate  of  their  childhood,  the  com- 
panion of  their  youth,  the  patient  counselor  of 
their  later  years. 

Death  breaks  the  lock  of  every  portfolio,  and 


252  WILLIAM   WETMORE   STORY. 

without  unveiling  sacred  places,  I  venture  to 
enrich  an  imperfect  sketch  with  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Story.  It  seems  a  sort  of  treachery  to  print 
what  was  never  intended  for  publication,  and  I 
pray  forgiveness  of  the  writer  if,  perchance,  her 
gentle  shade  hovers  about  the  world  she  made 
the  fairer  for  her  living  in  it. 

Letter  of  Mrs.  Story. 

"N.  Lago  di  Vallambrosa, 
"October  28,  1886. 

"My  Dear  Mrs.  Wallace :  Many  a  time,  im- 
patient of  the  silence  which  has  come  between  us, 
have  I  wished  to  break  it  on  my  side,  but  so 
vague  was  my  knowledge  of  your  whereabouts 
that  I  was  frightened  about  launching  into  in- 
finite space  my  little  skiff.  Your  most  kind  let- 
ter came  and  helps  me  to  find  you  out.  How 
often  is  'Ben-Hur'  in  our  minds  and  its  praises  on 
our  tongues ! 

"The  book  of  books  of  this  age !  Read  aloud 
for  the  second  time  it  has  lost  none  of  its  rare 
charm,  and  it  is  beyond  words  to  say  how  greatly 
we  prize  it.  All  our  English  friends  to  whom  we 
have  introduced  it  join  in  this  chorus  and  its 
reputation  is  fast  growing  there  as  in  America. 

"I  do  not  like  to  think  that  being  snugly  set- 


LETTER  OF  MRS.  STORY.  .  253 

tied  in  your  old  home,  'outre  mer/  we  are  not 
likely  soon  to  see  you  in  Rome,  but  we  cling  to 
the  hope  that  it  is  not  impossible.  We  have  had 
a  most  delightful  summer  at  St.  Moritz  in  the 
Engadine,  and  are  there,  in  the  pine  woods, 
building  a  house !  There  are  few  things  more  ab- 
sorbing than  the  building  of  one^s  future  home, 
and  when,  as  in  this  case,  the  situation  is  so  com- 
pletely to  one's  tastes  and  physical  wants,  it  is 
abundantly  comforting  to  see  its  growth.  We 
are  building  of  the  stone  found  on  the  place, 
rough  and  unhewn.  It  was  graciously  brought 
there  ages  ago  by  some  friendly  old  glacier  and 
delivered,  fit  for  use,  at  our  very  door.  As  it 
grows  in  height  we  see  that  it  dominates  the  val- 
ley with  no  discordant  note,  it  might  have  grown 
there,  first  cousin  to  the  snow-capped  mountains, 
all  gray  and  subdued.  The  cement  between  the 
stones  has  been  carefully  made  of  the  same  color 
and  there  is  no  offense  to  the  landscape,  or  any- 
thing too  new  about  it.  The  greater  part  of  each 
day  have  we  passed  in  our  pine  wood  there,  until 
we  feel  that  we  already  have  possession,  and 
have  grown  familiar  with  all  its  shades  and 
moods.  They  promise  to  have  it  ready  for  occu- 
pation next  summer. 

"We  are  now  making  a  visit  to  our  daughter, 
Edith    Peruzzi,   and  are   greatly  enjoying  the 


254  WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 

grandchildren,  who  are  very  original,  clever,  and 
amusing.  It  is  in  the  heart  of  the  Vallambrosa 
forest,  and  the  leaves  are  thick  as  in  Milton's 
time. 

*The  Hfe  here  is  singularly  simple  and  idyllic. 
No  report  of  the  outer  world  comes  except 
through  Galignani's  judging  columns,  and  the 
days  go  by  happily,  without  incident  or  note. 

"Our  plan  is  to  go  to  Rome  next  week  and 
shake  down  into  our  old  routine  at  the  Palazzo 
Barberini  early  in  November.  How  pleasant 
had  we  hope  of  seeing  you  there  this  winter.  I 
do  not  like  to  wait  too  long  for  my  good  things, 
but  am  impatient  in  my  old  age  to  snatch  them 
up  lest  they  escape  me  altogether. 

"My  husband,  for  the  first  time  since  our  mar- 
riage, has  been  taking  a  holiday,  and  while 
watching  the  masons  and  stonecutters  at  St. 
Moritz  has  found  ample  amusement  and,  I  hope, 
rest  from  his  constant  work.  However,  his  is 
the  working  temperament,  and  it  is  his  great  de- 
light as  he  goes  from  one  thing  to  another.  The 
Key  monument,  for  San  Francisco,  is  finished, 
and,  if  I  say  it,  who  perhaps  shouldn't  say  it,  is 
one  of  the  grandest  monuments  of  modern 
times. 

"My  boy  Julian  is  painting,  in  Paris,  a  large 
historical  picture;   it  is  the  incident  of  Madame 


LETTER  OF  W.  W.  STORY.  255 

de  Sembreuil  and  her  father.  They  tell  us  (we 
haven't  seen  it)  that  it  will  be  a  great  success,  and 
this  I  am  not  unwilling  to  believe,  as  you  may 
imagine. 

"My  son,  Waldo,  and  my  son-in-law,  Peruzzi, 
have  just  come  in  with  their  dogs  and  guns.  A 
slender  bag  is  all  they  can  hope  for  here  as  the 
game  is  not  abundant.  But  the  accidental  wood- 
cock involves  a  long  tramp  over  the  hills,  and 
this  is  what  they  must  be  content  with  instead 
of  the  full  bags  of  England. 

"Now,  my  dear  friend,  pray  let  us  hear  from 
you  sometimes,  and  believe  that  we  have  a  very 
deep  interest  in  all  that  concerns  you  and  your 
husband.  Though  our  intercourse  was  all  too 
short,  yet  it  was  long  enough  to  make  us  feel 
the  most  affectionate  sympathy  and  abiding  con- 
fidence in  you  both. 

"With  love  from  my  husband, 

"Yours,  most  cordially, 

*'Emelyn     Story." 

Letter  of  W.  W.  Story. 

"Palazzo  Barberini, 
"Rome,  Feb.   15,  1884. 

"My  Dear  Mrs  Ben-Hur:  'I  was  very  much 
touched  by  your  kind  remembrance  of  me,  and 


256  WILLIAM    WETMORE    STORY. 

ought  long  ago  to  have  thanked  you,  as  I  do 
now,  most  heartily,  for  the  handsome  kufyah 
which  you  were  so  good  as  to  send  me.  It  was  a 
great  surprise  as  well  as  a  great  pleasure  to  re- 
ceive such  a  token  of  your  kindly  feeling  toward 
us. 

"My  excuse  for  not  writing  to  you  before  is 
simply  this.  I  wanted  first  to  read  Ben-Hur,  so 
as  to  be  able  to  say  something  about  it.  But 
with  the  thousand  interruptions  to  which  our 
evening  life  is  subject  it  was  not  easy  to  find  a 
series  of  evenings  which  we  could  devote  to  the 
reading,  and  as  all  were  anxious  to  hear  it,  we 
determined  to  read  aloud  and  enjoy  it  together. 
This,  at  last,  we  have  done,  my  wife  and  I  alter- 
nately reading  each  other,  and  what  do  we  say 
now  that  we  have  finished  the  last  page  with  deep 
regret  to  come  to  the  end?  We  all  agree  that 
it  is  a  most  remarkable  book,  of  deep  and  sus- 
tained interest,  vivid  to  an  extraordinary  degree, 
full  of  life  and  character  and  power.  Through- 
out it  is  masterly  and  there  are  passages  and 
scenes  which  stir  one's  blood  Hke  the  sound  of 
the  trumpet.  The  galley  life,  the  naval  fight  with 
the  pirates,  the  race  in  the  Circus  are  so  full  of 
fire  and  life  that  we  seem  to  have  been  there  as 
spectators  or  actors.  I  cannot  imagine  how  Gen- 
eral Wallace  could  have  created,  without  ever 


LETTER  OF  W.  W.  STORY.  257 

having  personally  visited  and  been  familiar  with 
the  life  and  scenery  in  the  East.  It  seems  almost 
impossible.  There  is  no  smell  of  books,  no  cram 
(to  speak  slang)  in  any  of  it.  It  seems  like  a  real 
experience.  The  characters  are  admirably  drawn 
and  constantly  consistent,  and  the  entire  book 
has  left  a  deep  impression  on  my  mind.  It  ought 
to  have  had  a  very  great  public  success,  and  I 
hope  it  has.  If  it  has  not  then  it  has  been  badly 
managed  by  the  publishers.  You  must  not  think 
that  in  saying  this  I  am  simply  wishing  to  say 
what  is  pleasant.  I  speak  the  truth  according 
to  my  own  feeling  and  judgment. 

"We  remember  our  only  too  brief  intercourse 
with  you  and  your  husband  with  great  pleasure, 
and  wish  that  it  could  have  been  prolonged. 
Sometime,  let  us  hope  that  we  may  again  see 
you  here  or  elsewhere  (but  better  here)  for  a 
longer  time. 

''With  our  united  kind  regards  to  you  and 
General  Wallace,  I  am, 

"Yours,  most  faithfully, 

''W.  W.  Story." 


X, 


AMONG  THE  PALACE-GALLERIES  OF 
FLORENCE— MADONNAS- 
RAPHAEL. 

In  Florence — flower  of  all  cities,  city  of  all 
flowers — there  is  a  small  room  of  the  Uflizzi  Pal- 
ace given  to  portraits  of  illustrious  artists.  There 
is  Rubens  in  very  becoming  hat  and  streaming 
plume;  Vandyke,  with  the  wide  collar  which 
bears  his  name;  Velasquez,  in  rich  mediaeval 
dress;  Titian,  robed  in  faultless  drapery;  paint- 
ers with  lesser  fame  and  faces  unlike,  having  one 
distinguishing  quality :  each  is  extremely  hand- 
some. The  stranger  does  not  understand  why 
this  should  be,  until  he  learns  they  are  auto- 
graphic portraits;  and  at  once  he  feels  no  man  is 
bound  to  paint  an  ugly  picture  of  himself  any 
more  than  to  parade  his  secret  faults  or  place  his 
vices  on  exhibition. 

Foremost  for  beauty,  where  all  are  beautiful, 

is  the  foremost  artist  of  all  this  world,  Raphael 

Sanzio,  well  named  by  his  countrymen  El  Di- 

vino,  "the  divine  one."     Artists  have  so  long 
259 


26o  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

sought  Italy  for  models  that  the  Italian  face 
seems  familiar  at  first  glance  through  the  wist- 
ful eyes,  so  sad,  so  sweet,  which  look  at  you 
from  the  walls  of  every  art  gallery  on  the  earth. 
Sometimes,  in  passing  a  shop,  a  figure  appears 
behind  the  window,  with  face  so  like  picture 
that,  till  it  stirs,  the  passer-by  does  not  know  if 
it  be  art  or  nature;  a  shopman  maybe,  or  a  mil- 
liner endowed  with  the  rich  heritage  of  regular 
feature  and  soft  warm  color.  The  same  curious 
sensation  came  over  us  at  seeing  living  cherub 
faces  framed  in  dingy  tumble-down  doorways, 
or  breathing  angel-boys,  on  a  background  of  dirt 
and  darkness,  playing  marbles  in  narrow  alleys, 
chattering  with  flute-like  voices  and  a  charming 
grace  of  gesture  which  is  natural  and  uncon- 
scious as  the  movements  of  the  gazelle. 

The  Raphael  face,  as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  is 
the  type  of  perfect  manly  beauty,  second  to  the 
god  of  the  Vatican.  He  was  twenty-three  years 
old  when  it  was  painted.  Rhythmic  lines  of  ut- 
most delicacy  make  the  three-quarter  face  of  the 
portrait.  A  tight  velvet  doublet,  cut  close 
round  the  shoulders,  would  render  almost  any 
other  masculine  neck  hideous.  It  only  brings 
out  the  elegant  contours  of  his  long,  flexile 
throat,  shaped  like  a  slender  woman's.  Thick 
chestnut  hair,  slightly  curling,  falls  below  the 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  261 

black  velvet  cap  still  worn  by  Roman  artists. 
Clear  olive  skin,  pure' forehead,  and  dark,  lumin- 
ous eyes  make  what  painters  name  a  color-har- 
mony. He  used  to  say  good  judges  are  as  rare 
as  beautiful  women.  We  may  add  a  beautiful 
man  is  rarer  than  either.  The  pensive,  pleasant 
face,  suggestive  of  dream  and  reverie,  commands 
our  admiration  in  a  different  way  from  the 
Apollo,  lacking,  as  it  does,  the  Greek  fire  which 
stirs  in  that  wonderful  statue. 

Not  much  is  known  of  the  early  life  of  our 
artist,  who  was  fortunate  as  though  born  in  the 
purple.  His  father  was  a  limner  of  no  preten- 
sion, and  at  his  birth  in  1483  gave  his  son  the 
name  of  the  Archangel,  as  though  he  foresaw 
the  celestial  brilliance  of  his  fame.  The  modest 
house  where  his  hazel  eyes  opened  to  the  light 
is  kept  as  public  property  and  pointed  out  to  the 
traveler  through  Urbino.  Half  way  up  the 
mountain  side  it  clings  to  the  shelving  rock  as  a 
swallow's  nest  clings  to  the  eaves.  The  sharp 
peaks  of  the  Appenines  are  in  sight,  and  in  the 
farness  of  the  distance  sparkles  the  blue  Adriatic. 

The  boy  had  no  nurse  but  his  mother,  and 
there  is  a  rude  picture,  still  extant,  of  a  mother 
and  child,  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  Giovanni 
Santi,  Raphael's  father.  The  life,  which  was  a 
triumphant    epic,    began    as    it    ended,    under 


262  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

gracious  influences  in  an  atmosphere  of  love. 
His  studies  commenced  with  Perugino,  a  faith- 
ful, religious  teacher,  the  most  distinguished  of 
his  period,  who  exclaimed  when  he  examined 
Raphael's  first  sketches,  "This  youth,  who  is  my 
pupil,  will  soon  become  my  master."  One  of  the 
best  gifts  his  good  genius  laid  in  his  cradle  was 
"the  power  to  toil  terribly."  He  had  the  rare 
felicity  of  doing  rapid  and  excellent  work,  and 
the  amount  he  accomplished  was  enormous. 

While  yet  in  his  'teens,  he  left  Perugia  for  the 
peerless  city  of  the  Red  Lily,  and  there  met  his 
first  love,  whose  name  has  escaped  the  historian. 
In  the  British  Museum  are  treasured  a  fac-simile 
and  translation  of  sonnets  to  the  unknown  one. 
Consoling  is  it  to  others  who  have  rung  the 
changes  on  love,  dove;  youth,  truth;  chime,  sub- 
lime, and  like  familiar  jingles,  to  know  the  love- 
sick youth  had  trouble  with  his  rhymes  in  the 
language  which  lends  itself  most  readily  to  verse. 
In  the  corner  of  the  sheet  are  such  words  as 
solo,  dolo,  volo,  noted  down;  and  after  a  line 
ending  with  luce  we  find  reduce,  conduce,  aduce, 
testimony  to  his  perplexity  in  choosing  the  fit- 
ting word. 

It  would  seem  the  serene  pictorial  face  of 
Raphael  must  be  a  reflex  of  his  own  soul;  the 
outshining  of  a  heavenly  spirit  within.     They 


.    MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  263 

tell  yet,  in  the  studios,  of  his  lofty  nature,  his 
princely  hospitality,  his  courtesy,  so  gentle  and 
so  generous  as  to  make  him  beloved  even  by 
rivals  who  pined  and  died  of  envy  at  his  su- 
periority. He  escaped  the  customary  curse,  and 
had  no  long  struggle  in  garrets  for  daily  bread. 
He  lived  in  splendor  as  became  the  splendor  of 
his  genius;  was  the  companion  of  nobles,  the 
peer  of  princes,  and  never  felt  the  force  of  the 
proverb,  "To  follow  Art  aright  you  must  for- 
sake father  and  mother,  and  cleave  only  unto 
her."  His  life  was  varied  and  delightful.  He 
was  fond  of  elegant  costumes,  and  had  them; 
loved  dainty  food  and  wine,  and  had  them;  and 
it  is  asserted  his  luxurious  habits  shortened  his 
days.  His  lovers  choose  rather  to  believe  he  died 
before  his  life  was  lived  out,  because  in  thirty- 
seven  years  his  spirit  burned  away  its  frail  prison- 
house;  his  soul  wore  out  his  breast  as  the  sword 
out-wears  its  sheath. 

He  painted  over  one  hundred  Madonnas,  and 
his  work  is  so  unequal  it  leaves  the  impression 
that  portions  of  it  are  unfinished.  The  cartoons 
designed  for  Flemish  tapestries  are  singular 
drawings  to  us,  and  the  hands  of  some  of  his 
pictures  are  stiff  and  awkward.  He  belonged  to 
the  school  of  students  who  trust  nothing  to  in- 
spiration.   He  employed  living  models,  and  his 


264  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

method  was  to  draw  the  figure  in  red  chalk  and 
then  clothe  it  as  one  clothes  the  naked  human 
body.  Not  otherwise,  he  said,  could  the  an- 
atomy be  accurately  kept.  He  spent  long  nights 
in  dissecting  dead  bodies,  and  never  indulged  the 
dolce  far  niente  dear  to  the  lazy  Southron.  At 
the  summit  of  his  glory,  when  kings  were  con- 
tending for  the  slightest  touches  of  his  pencil, 
his  processes  were  toilsome.  After  painting  the 
human  form  and  clothing  it,  he  said  he  painted 
the  soul — a  nobler  task  than  either  of  the  other 
two;  but  he  reached  the  point  where  seraphs 
and  cherubs  seem  to  "draw  themselves,"  and  the 
Divine  Child  assumes  the  thoughtfulness  of  the 
future  Judge  of  quick  and  dead. 

The  power  to  illumine  ideal  faces  with  the  hal- 
lowed light  from  their  own  hearts  is  a  transcend- 
ent gift  vouchsafed  to  few.  It  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  airy  pencil  and  costly  color,  unless  they 
are  guided  by  the  subtle,  mystic  force  never  com- 
prehended, which  the  world  calls  genius. 

There  are  deep  mysteries  in  that  strange  gift. 
Grosser  natures  feel,  but  understand  not,  the 
methods  by  which  a  masterful  hand  produces 
effects  that  bring  tears  to  your  eyes;  you  scarce- 
ly know  why,  for  it  is  a  feeling  more  intense  than 
the  mere  sense    of    the    beautiful.     Given    a 


MADONNAS-RAPHAEL.  ^265 

Stretched  canvas,  half  a  dozen  brushes  and  a  few 
colors  to  paint  the  invisible  soul. 

Incredible  you  say;  yet  it  has  been  done.  If 
you  do  not  believe,  go  visit  Italy;  stand  before 
the  St.  Sebastian  of  Guido  and  frescoes  of  Fra 
Angelico,  and  be  convinced. 

There  is  a  picture  which  once  filled  with  its 
solitary  presence  a  room  of  the  Pitti  Palace.  The 
subject  is  the  Visitation  of  the  Virgin,  and  was 
conceived  in  ignorant  but  zealous  times,  when 
men,  shut  in  the  soft  gloom  of  convent  cells,  gave 
form  and  hue  to  children  of  their  dreams,  and 
did  not  know  they  were  dreaming.  In  it  there 
are  no  accessories.  Mary  arose  and  went  up  into 
the  hill  country,  with  haste,  to  the  house  of  her 
cousin  Elizabeth  and  saluted  her.  The  meeting 
is  in  a  garden  in  front  of  a  sculptured  archway, 
against  a  dark  blue  sky.  They  stand  alone  and 
look  as  they  should  who  were  worthy  to  be  moth- 
ers of  the  greatest  of  kings  and  the  greatest  of 
prophets.  The  elder  woman  steps  eagerly  to 
greet  the  mother  of  our  Lord,  who,  with  eyes 
downcast  and  ineffable  meekness  in  her  face,  re- 
ceives the  mysterious  welcome.  There  is  a  tra- 
dition about  the  studios  that  a  woman  of  a 
strange  country  far  from  home,  lonely  and  home- 
sick, would  go  and  sit  hours  at  a  time  in  that 
room  "for  company,"  wistfully  praying  that  the 

18 


266  The  palace-galleries. 

kind,  penetrating,  sympathetic  look  of  the  tender 
old  Elizabeth  might  fall  on  herself. 

Day  after  day  the  poor  creature  went  to  the 
majestic  picture,  little  knowing  its  great  merit, 
until  (so  the  story  runs)  a  sweet  peace  sunk  into 
her  soul,  which  she  accepted  as  a  sign  from 
Heaven.  Everyone  is  not  thus  strongly  moved, 
but  the  memory  of  that  painting  is  a  precious 
possession  to  those  who  have  been  blest  with  the 
sight. 

To  perfect  his  sculpture,  Michael  Angelo, 
when  young,  changed  his  living  models  for 
corpses.  Through  twelve  years  he  lived  among 
the  dead,  studying  them  and  almost  analyzing 
them.  Once  he  became  infected  with  the  virus 
of  putrefaction  and  was  near  death,  from  an 
effort  to  extract  the  sublime  out  of  the  remains 
of  a  skeleton  laid  aside  as  useless  by  the  surgeons. 

Thus  with  Guido,  when  congratulated  on  his 
success  in  painting  upturned  eyes,  he  said,  mean- 
ingly, "I  never  understood  the  method  until  I 
had  dissected  eyes." 

I  asked  the  most  famous  sculptor  now  living 
if  he  ever  reached  his  ideal.  He  answered, 
"Never!  If  I  should  touch  it,  one  incentive 
would  be  gone.  I  start  on  each  new  study  with 
hope,  like  sure  prophecy.  Gradually  the  rapture 
fades,  the  fire  burns  out.    When  two-thirds  done. 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  267 

there  comes  a  period  of  despair.  I  can  not  reach 
the  height  up  which  I  ran  so  fast  at  first,  and  so 
I  plod  on  as  best  I  may  and  accept  fate,  believ- 
ing this  the  common  doom."  It  is  difificult  for 
us  to  believe  the  work  of  the  first  artists  can  fall 
short  of  their  imaginings,  and  we  readily  see  the 
type  of  woman  admired  by  each. 

The  Madonnas  of  Rubens  are  fat,  heavy,  red- 
cheeked  German  women;  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
The  Madonnas  of  Michael  Angelo  are  remote, 
magnificent,  stately,  and  suited  to  the  fancy  of 
the  sculptor  who,  beholding  with  clear  vision  a 
white-winged  angel  in  a  block  of  marble  by  the 
wayside,  attacked  it  with  hammer  and  chisel, 
determined  to  set  the  imprisoned  spirit  free.  I 
need  not  run  through  names  familiar.  The  vir- 
gins of  Raphael  are  only  a  little  lower  than  the 
angels,  yet  always  the  woman,  too.  The  expres- 
sion of  rapture  in  the  face  does  not  destroy  the 
meekness  of  the  Jewish  maiden,  who  answered 
the  messenger  Archangel,  "Behold,  the  hand- 
maiden of  the  Lord;  be  it  unto  me  according  to 
thy  word.'*  So  arbitrary  was  the  fashion  of 
painting  the  virgins  in  close,  red  tunic,  with  long 
sleeves,  and  over  it  a  blue  robe  or  mantle,  like 
those  worn  to  this  day  by  Bethlehem  girls,  that 
when  Raphael  ventured  on  a  bare  right  arm, 
public  opinion  obliged  him  to  cover  it  with  the 


268  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

long  sleeve.  He  was  very  devout.  The  poetic, 
dreamy  expression  of  his  face  inclines  us  to  think 
he  was  one  of  the  enthusiasts  who  steeped  his 
brushes  in  holy  water  during  Lent,  and  wept  as 
he  worked  at  the  canvas,  which  he  never  ap- 
proached till  first  purified  by  prayer.  More  than 
this,  we  may  almost  credit  the  legend  told  by 
Guido,  that  while  he  was  adoring  Mary,  she  re- 
vealed her  person  to  him  in  a  vision,  that  he 
might  the  more  worthily  portray  her  loveliness. 
They  are  pictures  to  haunt  you  and  hold  you. 
Such  might  easily  lead  any  motherless  woman 
to  worship  of  the  mother  of  Christ. 


It  is  a  pity  to  die  without  seeing  Italy.  Only 
in  the  land  of  Raphael  can  you  learn  the  possi- 
bilities which  lie  in  the  intellect  of  man.  If 
tempted  to  describe  the  indescribable,  I  might 
try  to  tell  of  angelic  faces  gleaming  on  cloudy 
backgrounds  that,  invisible  at  first,  come  softly 
into  view,  as  stars  come  out  in  summer  twilights, 
till  the  canvas  is  crowded  with  heavenly  shapes — 
a  seeming  miracle. 

In  Art,  as  in  Nature,  we  receive  but  what  we 
give,  and  unless  in  sympathy  with  the  subject 
and  its  treatment,  vainly  do  you  visit  the  Palace- 
Galleries.     You  will  be  like  the  smart  American 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  269 

in  Switzerland,  among  the  sublimest  scenes  earth 
has  to  show,  beholding  the  glory  of  Mount 
Blanc,  and  pertly  saying:  "Well,  Blanc  looks 
pretty  tall  this  morning,  and  white  headed  at 
that."  It  is  the  spectator's  mood  which  trans- 
figures the  Transfiguration,  and,  I  confess,  the 
extreme  painfulness  of  that  great  work  kept  me 
from  a  longer  study  of  it.  I  turned  with  a  sense 
of  relief  to  the  Savior  ascending  in  a  golden  ra- 
diance, a  light  like  that  from  the  Eternal  Throne, 
painted  by  Guido,  which  hangs  near  it  in  the 
Vatican. 

No  picture  of  Him  touched  me  like  the  Ecce 
Homo  of  Carlo  Dolce.  The  head  is  of  supreme 
beauty.  The  eyes  look  at  you  instead  of  up- 
ward, as  is  usual  with  paintings*  of  this  class; 
the  blood-stained  face,  so  divine  yet  so  human, 
is  agonizing. 

I  could  not  bear  to  look,  yet  found  myself 
drawn  from  all  else  in  the  room,  returning  to  the 
image  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  which  almost  said : 
'This  have  I  done  for  thee,  what  hast  thou 
done  for  Me?" 

There  is  an  ancient  tradition  which  claims  that 
Luke,  the  beloved  physician,  was  also  a  painter, 
and  the  familiar  pictures  of  Christ  (distinguish- 
able as  portraits  of  Washington  are),  follow  his 
original,  from  which  all  after  likenesses  have 


270  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

been  made.  You  who  are  interested  in  this  sub- 
ject may  find  a  delightful  chapter  on  it  in 
Geikie's  Life  of  Christ. 

If  there  be  a  fairer  thing  than  Florence  outside 
of  Heaven,  I  have  not  found  it.  Such  heroic 
deeds  have  there  been  done  that  the  imperish- 
able names  of  poet,  hero,  prince,  prophet,  are 
written  in  the  very  paving  stones  of  the  streets 
they  have  trodden.  He  is  a  dull  clod  who  does 
not  thrill  to  the  spell  of  her  loveliness,  old,  cen- 
turies old,  yet  forever  young,  and  does  not  say 
to  himself,  I,  too,  will  do  something  to  make  my 
name  remembered. 

The  wavy  lines  of  Carrara  and  the  Appenines 
encircle  her  with  a  magic  girdle.  Ethereal  walls 
of  amethyst,  amber,  and  pearl,  which  shut  out 
the  curse  of  age  and  decay. 

At  evening  Raphael  used  to  thread  the  white- 
paved  path  up  San  Miniato,  while  the  dove-like 
tints  of  the  sky  flushed  red  as  the  redness  of 
roses,  and  climbed  the  tower  where  a  century 
later  Galileo  learned  the  story  of  the  sun  and 
Milton  looked  on  Vallambrosa  and  dreamed  of 
Eden. 

To-day  San  Miniato  wears  as  a  crown,  no  king 
has  half  so  precious,  Angelo's  perfect  statue  of 
David,  the  shepherd-boy  who  sang,  "The  Lord 
is  my  Shepherd." 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  271 

It  is  worth  a  long  pilgrimage  only  once  to  see 
the  sun  go  down  to  the  swift  music  of  the  bells  of 
Campanile,  the  lily  carved  in  stone  by  the  boy 
who  left  his  flocks  to  build  himself  an  everlasting 
fame. 

In  the  pure  elastic  air  of  Valdarno  lie  palace 
turrets,  towers,  spires  in  a  sort  of  spiritual  beauty 
such  as  sculptors  must  see  in  their  dreams.  The 
Vecchio  battlements  sharply  pierce  the  sky  and, 
dominating  all,  the  tall  shaft  of  the  Duomo,  a 
poem  of  the  earth  and  air,  rises  in  the  speckless 
blue.  Its  many-colored  marbles,  touched  with 
gold  and  ivory  by  the  opaline  light,  are  fresh 
as  if  sculptured  last  night.  Here  history,  poetry, 
romance  hold  eternal  and  undisputed  sway. 
The  Past  is  not  the  dead  Past.  It  is  round  about 
you  and  enfolds  you  like  this  ethereal  atmos- 
phere. The  memories  of  greatness  are  ever 
present  and  ineffably  dear  even  to  the  meanest 
Florentine.  Every  beggar  knows  where  Pe- 
trarca  sang,  where  Dante  lived,  where  Boccaccio 
told  his  wild  tales,  and  the  Square  where  the  tried 
soul  of  Savonarola  was  freed  by  fire.  In  grate- 
ful recognition  of  the  anniversary  he  will  give 
from  his  poverty  a  violet  to  strew  on  the  pave- 
ment where  the  martyr  suffered. 

Across  the  Happy  Valley,  where  there  is  an 
ideal  side  to  the  poorest  life,  beyond  the  gray 


272  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

olive  orchards  and  sad  cypresses  lies,  warm  in 
the  sun,  white  Fiesole,  unspeakably  beautiful. 
There  is  the  villa  of  the  Medici  princes,  who  lav- 
ished their  millions  on  palaces,  churches,  hospi- 
tals, libraries,  and  in  their  cool,  flowery  gardens 
the  nightingale  sings  her  love-songs  to  the  rose. 
On  festal  days,  and  they  are  many,  from  a  hun- 
dred standards  floats  the  crimson  cross,  the  red 
lily  of  Florence,  which  once  blossomed  in  victory 
on  the  gates  of  Rome.  Oh,  there  is  no  beauty 
like  the  beauty  of  Italy !  Well  do  her  children 
sing,  out  of  it  every  land  is  exile. 

Under  a  compelling  impulse,  Raphael  forsook 
the  flag  of  the  lily  for  the  imperial  purple.  He 
said  a  final  prayer  beneath  the  vaulted  roof 
which  now  shelters  all  that  can  die  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  Giotto,  and  sought  the  mountain 
rim,  which  at  morning  seems  impalpable  and 
evanescent  as  the  passing  drifts  of  clouds. 

Through  tender  lights  and  hazy  curtaining 
shadows  he  rode,  where  the  ashes  of  a  hundred 
generations  without  a  history  lie  in  unrecorded 
battlefields. 

A  misty  procession  from  the  ranks  of  the  for- 
gotten marches  with  you  who  journey  there  to- 
day. Nameless  rulers,  law-givers,  people  (Italy 
has  always  a  people) — phantom  hosts  growing 
dimmer  and  dimmer,  vanishing  at  last  into  the 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  273 

regions  of  myth  and  fable.  Over  the  dead  and 
gone  Etruscans,  in  their  cheerful  tombs,  he  rode; 
over  that  older  city  whose  name  is  lost;  along 
the  weird,  ghastly  Campagna,  whose  creeping, 
damp  winds  are  freighted  with  death;  he  trav- 
eled in  search  of  severer  studies  and  sterner  tasks. 
Fair  Florence  is  a  poetess;  in  brute  greatness 
Rome  is  a  gladiator.  He  entered  it  by  the  wall 
scaled  in  our  generation  by  the  red-shirted  troops 
of  Garibaldi.  He  went  as  a  conqueror,  to  write 
his  name  on  high  in  the  noblest  cathedral  built 
by  mortal  hands. 

Orders  from  the  Pope  at  once  poured  in  on 
him.  The  church  princes  instantly  gave  him  a 
loggia  in  the  Vatican  for  his  frescoes.  He  was 
the  spoiled  darling  of  art-lovers,  and  wrought  in- 
cessantly; making  designs  for  mosaics,  tapes- 
tries, scenes  for  theaters;  using  wood  for  small 
pictures,  instead  of  canvas.  At  intervals  he  prac- 
ticed modeling  with  clay  and,  in  boundless  ambi- 
tion, expected  to  rival  Angelo  in  sculpture  and 
Bramante  in  architecture. 

He  had  a  school  of  pupils  eager  to  learn,  who 
dressed  in  gay  and  smiling  colors,  and  when  he 
walked  on  the  Palatine,  fifty  youths  attended 
him;  which  made  Michael  Angelo — a  sour,  soli- 
tary man — exclaim :  *'You  go  about  surrounded 
like  a  general." 


274  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  the  church  was  the 
best  patron  of  art.  High  dignitaries  must  be 
propitiated;  and  in  courtly  flattery,  a  cardinal 
or  archbishop  was  represented  talking  with  the 
Holy  Family,  or  a  Medici  or  Colonna,  stained 
with  unspeakable  crimes,  throned  on  the  shining 
clouds  of  Paradise.  This  is  bad  enough;  but, 
oh!  what  shocking  blasphemy,  to  see  God  the 
Father  pictured  a  benevolent  old  man,  watching 
the  martyrdom  of  some  saint  or  the  mystery  of 
the  Incarnation!  That  face  which  no  man  can 
see  and  live,  before  whose  awful  majesty  the  first 
Archangel  veils  his  eyes  as  he  sings.  But  it  was 
not  conscious  blasphemy  to  the  prayerful  mas- 
ters. In  those  days  lived  artists  who  believed  in 
God  and  glorified  Him  in  their  works,  before 
people  who  believed  in  Him  as  truly.  In  little 
towns  there  was,  here  and  there,  an  obscure  man, 
who  rarely  wandered  beyond  hearing  of  his  ves- 
per bells,  who  has  left,  in  a  dim  gray  church 
or  dusty  cathedral,  the  portrait  of  the  wife  of  his 
youth  above  the  lighted  altar,  and  the  face  of  his 
first-born  in  the  Christ-child  she  holds  in  her 
arms.  His  holy  work  lives  on;  but  his  name  is 
recorded  only  in  Heaven. 

The  dreams  of  the  painters  in  the  sixteenth 
century  were  realities  to  themselves.  It  is  im- 
possible to  produce  such  results  without  convic- 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  275 

tion.  Raphael  denied  that  any  of  his  Madonnas 
are  portraits;  all  are  varied  copies,  from  no 
earthly  face,  of  the  sinless  ideal  mirrored  in  his 
own  soul.  Spinello  fainted  when  he  laid  on  the 
finishing  stroke  of  his  portrait  of  Satan;  and 
the  Fra  Angelico  deemed  it  profanation  to  alter 
a  feature  of  the  angels  who  visited  him  one  lus- 
trous night  and  shadowed  his  cloister  with 
wings,  that  they  might  live  visibly  before  men  in 
the  starry  faces  of  his  frescoes. 

While  the  ruling  powers  were  to  be  conciliated 
in  delicate  compliment,  so  grudges  were  some- 
times paid  by  painting  a  favorite  enemy  as  Judas, 
always  with  red  head,  or  a  condemned  soul  in 
hell  wearing  ass*s  ears,  or  as  Satan,  with  bat's 
wings,  hoofs,  and  a  tail.  Then  again  the  hus- 
band deifies  his  wife,  his  children,  or  oftener  the 
high-born  lady  whom  the  artist  may  worship 
from  afar. 

There  is  little  of  gayety  in  the  works  of  the 
painter  who  painted  for  eternity,  who  knelt  be- 
fore his  easel  for  a  blessing  on  his  labors;  and  I 
recall  but  one  so  cheering  that  when  unveiled  it 
made  the  people  laugh  and  sing  for  joy.  It  was 
a  fresco  in  the  Sanzio  Villa,  near  Rome,  painted 
in  extravagance  of  fun,  as  though  he  had  re- 
served his  whole  stock  for  this  one  outburst. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  whimsical  designs — Loves 


276  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

balancing  on  poles  or  mounted  on  horseback; 
dancing  Graces;  Fauns  overflowing  with  jolHty; 
Mercury  alight  or  flying;  nymphs  with  arms  en- 
twined making  garlands  of  human  flowers;  baby 
cherubs  nursed  in  Eden;  rose-winged  Cupids 
poised  on  purple  mists;  young  gods  crowned 
with  myrtles,  innocent,  ethereal  as  visions  of 
childhood.  There,  too,  are  trooping  Auroras  ris- 
ing on  the  radiant  lines  of  morning;  Naiads  float- 
ing on  sea-foam,  so  aerial  and  fleeting  a  breath 
would  blow  them  away.  On  the  ceiling  of  the 
same  salon  are  medallion  portraits  of  the  For- 
narina,  the  baker's  daughter,  with  bold,  black 
eyes  and  cheeks  of  ruddy  bronze. 

Usually  the  finest  foreign  pictures  of  moder- 
ate size  are  under  glass  to  prevent  accidents,  for 
copyists  are  constantly  at  work  before  them. 
They  are  property  of  the  Government  and  the 
privilege  of  copying  is  free.  No  one  is  allowed 
to  keep  his  easel  in  place  longer  than  two 
months;  the  names  of  applicants  are  kept  in  a 
registered  list,  and  so  great  is  the  number  of  can- 
didates for  the  sittings,  that  not  unfrequently 
the  applicants  must  wait  six  years  for  their  turn 
to  come.  The  first  copy  is  held  as  a  model  not 
for  sale,  else  each  remove  (copies  of  copies), 
would  take  from  the  likeness,  till  it  would  gradu- 
ally be  lost  like  the  long-continued  impressions 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  ^11 

of  an  engraving.  A  copyist  may  spend  his  life 
re-producing  one  picture,  and  if  he  has  the  soul 
of  an  artist  he  should  get  very  near  the  touch  of 
him  whose  best  Madonna  is  represented  upborne 
by  the  air,  uncrowned,  save  with  her  own  fair 
tresses.  Usually  the  copy  misses  the  last  inde- 
finable charm  in  about  the  same  distance  that 
Addison's  Cato  falls  below  the  Julius  Caesar  of 
the  great  master  of  morals  and  humanity. 

In  the  golden  year,  1520,  Raphael  touched  his 
meridian. 

Then  it  was  time  to  depart.  Happy  for  him  to 
cross  the  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
death  and  existence,  ere  the  excellency  of  his 
strength  declined,  before  his  work-worn  hand 
had  lost  its  cunning  or  his  marvelous  personal 
charm  was  dimmed.  The  circumstances  of  his 
death  are  obscure.  After  a  short  rapid  fever  it 
was  announced  that  El  Divino  had  passed  above 
the  brightness  of  the  sun — had  joined  the  saints 
and  martyrs,  who  were  to  him  not  shadowy 
myths  or  phantoms,  born  of  fear  and  supersti- 
tion, but  beings  whom  he  loved  to  contemplate, 
the  subjects  of  his  dearest  fancies  and  devotions. 
He  must  have  entered  that  innumerable  com- 
pany, as  an  equal  and  familiar  spirit.  In  his 
own  studio,  loving  pupils  folded  to  rest  the  illus- 
trious and  reverent  hands  which  had  painted  the 


278  THE   PALACE-GALLERIES. 

Apostles,  the  Blessed  Mother  and  Redeemer  tri- 
umphant in  glory,  now  revealed  to  his  actual 
sight.  At  his  head  they  placed  his  grandest  pic- 
ture, on  which  the  paints  were  still  wet.  "And,'' 
says  an  old  chronicler,  "when  the  people  of 
Rome  flocked  to  look  upon  him  for  the  last  time, 
and  raised  their  eyes  to  the  unfinished  Trans- 
figuration, and  then  bent  them  on  the  lifeless 
form  beneath,  there  was  a  wail  of  sorrow  and 
every  heart  was  like  to  burst  with  grief."  His 
sickness  was  so  brief  there  was  no  wasting  of  the 
refined  clay. 

It  lay  in  statuesque  repose  exquisite  as  marble 
of  Carrara,  brought  by  the  mighty  sculptor  into 
the  matchless  symmetry  of  the  crucified  Christ. 

At  his  own  request  he  was  buried  in  the  Pan- 
theon, that  august  monument  whose  colossal 
lines  had  been  one  of  his  favorite  studies,  and  a 
simple  slab  of  marble,  let  into  the  wall,  marks 
the  tomb  of  the  greatest  of  painters.  If  opened, 
we  might  almost  think  to  find,  instead  of  dust, 
roses  and  lilies  such  as  the  Disciples  found  in- 
stead of  the  body  of  the  Virgin  when  they  sought 
it,  sorrowing. 

In  1833  his  coffin  was  unclosed  and  his  skele- 
ton exposed  to  the  adoring  gaze  of  a  vast  con- 
course of  people;  and  after  five  weeks  of  homage 
it  was  returned  with  incredible  pomp  to  its  sepul- 


MADONNAS— RAPHAEL.  ^79 

cher.  The  sad  Miserere  sounded  through  St. 
Peter's  and  was  echoed  by  the  bells  of  the  other 
churches  in  a  solemn  night-service.  There  was 
a  funeral  procession  with  banners,  torches,  flam- 
beaux; and  the  Pantheon  was  illuminated  to  re- 
ceive the  beloved  remains. 

Beyond  the  majestic,  pillared  portico,  among 
arched  recesses  and  stately  altars  once  dedicated 
to  heathen  gods  (Christian  through  twelve  cen- 
turies), he  sleeps  well.  Wrapped  in  his  shroud, 
forever  safe  with  his  undying  fame. 


XI. 
LETTER  FROM  DRESDEN. 

The  Sistine  Madonna. 

"December,   1884. 

"The  gallery  of  Dresden,  in  what  is  called  the 
Green  House,  is  superior  to  anything  of  the  kind 
outside  of  Italy.  Only  the  Vatican  is  richer  in 
statuary  and  the  Pitti  Palace  surpasses  it  in  pic- 
tures. I  made  haste  to  find  the  masterpiece  of 
Raphael,  having  held  (heretically)  that  Murillo's 
Immaculate  Conception  is  more  beautiful  than 
th.^  Sistine  Madonna  of  Sanzio.  After  careful 
study  I  cannot  now  say  it  is  less  beautiful.  They 
are  both  divine;  in  design  and  execution  the 
very  first  in  the  world.  A  peculiarity  of  the  Ra- 
phael is  that  it  sinks  into  your  heart  as  you 
stand  before  it.  Like  the  Murillo,  the  Virgin- 
Mother  is  a  girl  not  more,  in  appearance,  than 
sixteen,  which,  you  remember,  was  near  her  age 
when  our  Savior  was  born.  Right  here  is  the 
failure  in  all  the  prints  and  copies  of  it  I  ever 
saw,  and  it  was  on  account  of  this  failure  that  I 
so  unjustly  gave  it  the  second  place.  The  youth- 
19  281 


282  LETTER  FROM   DRESDEN. 

ful  mother  seems  to  hold  the  infant  up  to  you, 
with  a  look  which  says,  ever  so  plainly,  yet  with- 
out pride  or  exultation:  Behold  the  Light  of 
the  world!  Here  is  the  goodness  of  God  in- 
carnate. She  knows  the  future;  those  eyes  have 
looked  through  infinite  sorrow,  and  found  in- 
finite peace.  On  its  part,  the  Child  is  seeing 
things  of  the  earth,  at  the  same  time  they  are 
lighted  with  a  glow  of  Heaven.  The  two  to- 
gether are  in  perfect  keeping  with  their  wonder- 
ful story.  After  a  time  I  found  myself  looking  at 
them  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  the  outre  figures 
of  the  Pope  and  Santa  Barbara,  whose  introduc- 
tion into  the  scene  may  possibly  be  excused  on 
the  ground  that  their  absolute  earthliness  makes 
perfect  contrast  with  the  divinity  which  shines 
from  the  principal  characters. 

"Finally  the  cherubs,  dimpled  and  smiling, 
could  not  be  spared  from  the  picture.  With 
them  are  three  couples,  with  an  unlikeness  each 
to  the  others,  that  is  of  itself  a  revelation  of  the 
power  of  characterization  which  lies  in  a  pencil 
under  the  guidancy  of  a  mighty  master.  For 
this  latter,  give  me  the  crayon  of  Raphael  and 
the  pen  of  Shakespeare  and  the  multitudes  of 
men  are  mine,  and  I  shall  do  with  them  as  I 
please. 

"With  all  my  devotion  to  the  Sistine  Madonna 


THE   SISTINE   MADONNA.  283 

I  have  not  forsaken  my  first  love;  the  floating 
figure  with  crescent  beneath  her  feet,  ringed 
with  cherubs  as  with  roses,  there  in  her  happy 
home  in  the  Louvre. 

''Raphael's  Mother  and  Child  in  the  chair  are 
on  exhibition  in  the  same  gallery.  This  picture 
is  also  a  wonder,  but  the  attractions  of  the  other 
obscure  it  utterly.  A  thin  little  woman  had  her 
canvas  set  up  before  it,  and  using  the  license  al- 
lowed in  European  galleries  I  dared  to  look  over 
her  shoulder.  She  was  struggling  with  a  task 
beyond  her  power.  The  likenesses  were  good, 
but  then  I  realized,  as  never  before,  the  immeas- 
ur  ble  distance  which  may  lie  between  an  orig- 
inal and  a  copy;  a  portrait  and  the  object  re- 
produced,— the  distance  between  a  dead  statue 
and  a  spiritualized  something  that  suggested  or 
sat  for  it.  I  felt  very  sorry  for  the  pale  little 
woman.  It  was  brave  in  her  to  attempt  the  copy, 
and  she  will  w^ork  over  it  so  long,  so  long,  and 
then  fail,  and  some  day  awake  to  the  conscious- 
ness that  it  is  a  failure.  How  painful  that  waking 
time  is!" 


XII. 

A  REMINISCENCE. 

It  is  long  since  I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven 
saying,  write;  so  long  I  sometimes  fancy  that  the 
far  cry  answered  in  the  vanity  of  youth  was  in 
reality  addressed  to  another.  But  there  can  be 
no  mistake  in  the  call  that  comes  to-day,  and 
not  to  appear  unheeding,  I  have  looked  through 
treasured  papers  and  find  manuscript  of  more 
value  than  any  fresh  material  I  might  offer. 
From  among  letters,  new  and  old,  I  select  one 
of  General  Sherman's  illustrating  his  kindliness 
and  unfailing  interest  in  all  so  fortunate  as  to 
come  near  him.  It  is  in  reply  to  a  request  for 
leave  to  print  certain  private  correspondence  in 
a  biographic  sketch — an  idea  afterward  aban- 
doned. You  notice  how  unlike  it  is  to  the  usual 
brief  response  by  the  hand  of  a  secretary : 

"FiFTH-AvE.  Hotel, 
"New  York,  Jan.  17,  1887. 

''Dear  Mrs  Wallace :  Your  welcome  letter  of 
the  15th  is  at  hand,  and  without  stopping  to  ex- 

19  285 


286  A  REMINISCENCE. 

amine  whether  the  letters  from  me  to  your  hus- 
band were  recorded  or  not,  I  freely  consent  to 
the  use  you  propose  to  make  of  them,  with  the 
simple  proviso  that  they,  in  general,  express  the 
warm  feeling  I  felt  for  every  man  who  wanted  to 
fight  the  good  fight  m  which  we  were  then  en- 
gaged. 

'The  quotation  you  make,  'Hold  your  horses 
for  the  home  stretch,'  comes  back  to  me  as  the 
memory  of  a  dream.  I  surely  thought  of  it  often 
when  I  saw  the  splendid  young  fellows  spoiling 
for  a  fight,  for  glory  and  fame,  when  my  better 
knowledge  told  me  the  end  was  not  yet  or  near; 
but  I  none  the  less  loved  the  ardent,  brave  and 
handsome  fellows  who  needed  the  curb  to  hold 
them  back  for  the  'home  stretch.'  It  must  have 
been  in  this  mood  that  I  wrote  to  General  Lew 
Wallace  in  1863. 

"I  have  seen  so  much  mischief  done  by  garb- 
Hng  letters  that  I  prefer  the  letter  should  be  em- 
bodied entire,  as  also  the  General's  letter  which 
called  for  these  answers;  but  as  they  are  some- 
times too  full  for  the  text,  with  full  faith  in  your 
good  sense,  of  which  I  have  heard  much,  I  leave 
the  subject  to  you  free. 

"So  many  of  our  comrades  have  dropped  off 
of  late  that,  though  in  good  health  and  strength, 
I  feel  like  a  patriarch,  ready  and  willing  to  be 


A  REMINISCENCE.  287 

called  on  short  notice,  and  I  shall  be  the  more 
willing  if  I  know  that  some  remain  who  are  ca- 
pable of  recording  the  deeds  and  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  the  men  who  rescued  our  govern- 
ment from  the  greatest  danger  that  ever  threat- 
ened its  existence. 

*'With  love  and  respect  to  the  General,  and 
wishing  you  and  yours  every  earthly  blessing, 

I  am,  truly  yours, 

"W.  T.  Sherman." 

How  well  I  remember  the  one  bright  day 
after  a  week  of  rain  when  we  last  saw  him  at 
West  Point  (1890).  One  by  one  the  cadets, 
eager  and  fluttered,  came  up  to  the  stand  to  re- 
ceive their  diplomas.  When  General  Sherman 
presented  the  parchments,  instead  of  repeating  a 
stiff  formula,  he  told  a  gay  anecdote,  or  some 
reminiscence  of  the  days  when  he,  too,  was  a 
boyish  aspirant,  or  gave  the  class  a  little  playful 
advice.  It  was  done  with  nicest  tact  in  fitting 
words  so  free  from  the  vice  of  the  commonplace 
that  each  youth  had  a  sense  of  personal  friend- 
ship, assured  that  his  glorious  career  would  be 
shaped  under  the  watchful  eye  of  the  great  com- 
mander. 

As  was  written  of  Lord  Raglan,  that  by  some 
gift  of  imagination  he  divined  the  feelings  of 


288  A  REMINISCENCE. 

all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  whether  he 
talked  to  a  statesman  or  a  school  boy,  his  hearer 
went  away  captive.  Nor  was  it  an  acquired 
grace,  a  mere  society  gloss,  but  the  outshining 
warmth  of  a  generous  spirit.  This  subtle  force  in 
General  Sherman  made  the  festal  day  a  proud 
historic  date  for  the  graduates  of  the  military 
academy. 

The  veteran,  in  rusty  uniform  and  careless  col- 
lar, looked  the  soldier  he  was,  the  greatest  with 
the  least  pretense.  Worn  by  years,  but  not  brok- 
en; alert,  ready  to  speak  or  to  listen  with  wakeful 
attention;  never  forgetting  the  old  acquaintance, 
equally  mindful  of  the  new,  it  was  easy  to  see  the 
springs  of  his  popularity.  Wherever  he  went 
there  was  the  center,  and  the  gracious  charm  of 
his  manner  set  at  ease  the  ancient  captain  who 
helped  put  down  the  rebellion  and  wanted  (O 
how  he  wanted !)  to  talk  over  the  march  to  the 
sea,  its  grief  and  its  glory.  His  cheery  voice 
calmed  the  distracted  matron  seeking  introduc- 
tion to  the  hero  of  whom  she  had  heard  and  read, 
not  knowing  how  to  behave  when  at  last  she 
ventured  into  his  presence;  and  the  quick  eye 
and  friendly  greeting  reassured  the  bashful  boy, 
hungry  for  honors,  till  the  lad  grew  radiant  with 
confidence. 

The  stir  of  the  crowd,  the  banners  floating  in 
the  rich  and  balmy  air,  the  roll  of  drums,  the 


A  REMINISCENCE.  289 

joyful  appeal  of  bugles,  the  cheers,  evidently 
moved  General  Sherman.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of 
adulation,  the  sweetness  of  unstinted  praise,  he 
would  drop  into  silence,  his  face  put  on  an  ex- 
pression of  listening,  rapt,  intent,  as  though  he 
already  heard  "the  advancing  tread  of  the  stone 
statue." 


XIII. 


ABOUT  BOOKS.* 

In  answer  to  the  question  what  book  has 
given  me  the  most  pleasure,  I  reply  without  hesi- 
tation, "Pilgrim's  Progress."  It  was  when  I 
was  about  seven  years  of  age  that  I  passed  from 
"Cinderella"  to  Bunyan's  matchless  work  with- 
out suspecting  that  it  was  not  a  child's  book. 
And  possessed  of  the  precious  volume — new 
books  were  rare  in  those  days — I  climbed  a  tall 
"secretary,"  to  escape  the  younger  children,  who 
were  too  small  to  scale  the  back  of  a  chair  and 
follow  me.  We  were  a  noisy  set — nine  in  all — 
and,  secured  in  comparative  quiet,  on  my  high 
perch,  I  dreamed  dreams  and  saw  visions  such  as 
no  fairy  tale  ever  unveiled  to  me.  Types  and 
shadows  there  were  none.  The  actors  of  the 
drama  were  not  creatures  of  fiction,  they  were 
positive  substance,  my  familiars,  and  now  are 
placed  with  my  personal  recollections. 

The  narrow  path,  straight  as  a  rule  could  make 
it,  was  plain  to  my  eyes  as  the  footpaths  which 

*  From  Edward  W.  Bok. 

291 


292  ABOUT  BOOKS. 

Streaked  my  father's  orchard,  under  the  apple 
trees.  I  hung  entranced  over  every  step  in  the 
marvelous  journey,  and  saw  clearly,  as  I  see  this 
pen  and  paper,  the  very  stately  palace,  the  name 
of  which  was  Beautiful,  and  it  stood  by  the  high- 
way side.  How  my  young  heart  rejoiced  when 
Christian  found  the  lions  guarding  it  were 
chained !  As  he  dropped  his  load  into  a  sepulcher 
and  gave  three  leaps  for  joy,  my  soul  leaped  too, 
only  to  sink  again  when  he  fell  into  the  clutches  of 
Giant  Despair  and  w^as  beaten  with  the  grievous 
crab-tree  cudgel  in  the  awful  courtyard  paved 
with  skulls  of  Pilgrims.  How  foolish  of  him  to 
forget  the  key  Promise,  which  would  open  any 
lock  in  Doubting  Castle,  and  how  I  longed  to 
twist  my  hands  in  the  hair  of  that  Flatterer  with 
his  net! 

Delicious  to  imagination  were  the  good  things 
the  travelers  had  to  eat  by  the  way.  The  raisins 
and  pomegranates,  the  cordials,  wine  red  as 
blood  and  those  wonderful  grapes  that  go  down 
so  sweetly  as  to  cause  the  lips  of  them  that  are 
asleep  to  speak.  The  feasts  almost  made  up  for 
the  fights  with  scaly  dragons  and  terrific  shapes 
coming  out  the  burning  pit,  terrors  that  made 
hideous  the  road  through  the  Dark  Valley  and 
satisfied  my  juvenile  love  of  the  mysterious  and 
horrible. 


ABOUT  BOOKS.  293 

Sweet  to  childish  fancy  were  the  rarities 
and  fair  shows  ol  the  Interpreter's  House;  the 
letter  of  the  King,  which  smelt  after  the  manner 
of  the  best  perfumes;  the  orchards  and  the  vine- 
yards of  the  Delectable  Mountain  (then  I  had 
never  seen  a  mountain),  and  the  loving  shep- 
herds at  Beulah  who  strewed  flowers  before  the 
feet  of  the  Pilgrims  bound  for  the  city  of  their 
Prince. 

Here  and  there  I  had  to  spell  out  hard  words, 
many  things  were  puzzling,  but  the  very  wonder- 
ments added  to  the  charm  o-f  the  story.  What 
was  a  quagmire,  what  was  a  muck-rake,  what 
were  stocks,  a  civet-box;  how  could  one  grass- 
hopper burden  a  man,  and  what  sort  of  shoes 
were  they  which  never  wear  out,  and  how  could 
the  shining  ones  dress  in  gold  clothes?  I  shiv- 
ered at  the  passage  through  the  cold,  black  river, 
forever  flowing;  the  river  that  has  no  bridge,  but, 
oh,  the  rapture  in  the  triumph  beyond!  The 
ringing  bells,  the  melodious  noises,  the  singers 
and  harpers  with  their  harps;  above  all,  that  One 
who  sat  on  the  great  white  throne  with  the  rain- 
bow round  His  head.  Those  pages  thrilled  me 
like  an  outburst  of  triumphant  music,  the  exult- 
ant feeling  one  has  in  cathedrals  resounding  with 
some  mighty  anthem. 

It  was  winter  time,  and  the  pleasanter  for  deep 


294  ABOUT  BOOKS. 

snows  without  were  thoughts  of  warm  palace 
rooms,  the  delicate  plain  Ease,  the  shady  arbor 
and  the  meadow  curiously  beautified  with  lilies, 
green  all  the  year  long.  At  sunset  I  looked 
through  glistening  towers  on  frosty  window- 
panes,  as  many  years  afterward  I  watched  the 
domes  and  spires  of  old  Stamboul  floating  in 
silvery  mists  of  the  Bosphorus,  and  recalled  the 
tremulous  glimmer  in  the  shepherd's  perspective 
glass.  On  the  top  of  a  high  hill  called  Clear  they 
could  not  look  steadily,  yet  they  thought  they 
saw  something  like  the  gate  of  the  Celestial  City, 
and  also  some  of  the  glory  of  the  place.  Noth- 
ing was  faint  or  vaporous.  Near  at  hand,  not 
high  and  distant,  was  the  City  of  the  King — an 
undimmed  splendor. 

When  I  went  to  bed  that  night,  lovely  shapes, 
walking,  floating,  flying,  went  with  me,  and 
angel-eyes  watched  over  my  sleep.  The  supreme 
delight  of  the  book  was  Greatheart,  my  hero  in 
bright  armor  and  helmet  with  plumes;  the  giant- 
killer,  the  lover  of  women  and  children,  who 
marched  up  to  the  lions,  not  minding  if  they  were 
chained  or  not.  That  warrior-image  has  not 
changed  in  the  waste  of  years,  nor  can  it  change. 
He  lives  while  realities  have  died.  I  loved  him 
then,  I  love  him  yet. 

Familiarity  has  not  dulled  the  charm  of  the 


ABOUT  BOOKS.  295 

wondrous  tale,  and  still  does  the  mystic  touch 
of  memory  sound  the  ancient  strings.  In  a  half- 
century  of  pilgrimage  I  have  repeatedly  met  the 
very  brisk  lad  named  Ignorance,  who  came  from 
the  country  Conceit,  have  caught  glimpses  on 
several  continents  of  Madame  Bubble  selling  her 
vanities,  a  tall,  comely  dame,  with  something 
of  a  swarthy  complexion.  And,  in  strange  lands, 
while  under  the  friendly  roof  of  our  missionaries, 
I  bethought  me  of  the  large  upper  room  where 
the  Pilgrims  slept  and  Mercy  dreamed  her  glori- 
ous dream.  Its  window  opened  toward  the  sun- 
rising,  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace. 

From  Bunyan,  the  change  to  "The  Arabian 
Nights"  was  easy;  thence  I  turned  to  Shakes- 
peare, where  I  remain  unto  this  day.  No  shrine 
outside  of  Palestine  moved  me  like  the  poor  little 
house  where  he  spent  his  boyhood,  unconscious 
that  he  was  to  enrich  the  human  race  with  its 
greatest  literary  inheritance. 

As  I  write  the  name  there  rises  before  me  the 
cool,  gray  day  we  spent  at  Stratford.  The  waters 
of  Avon  go  softly  past  the  old  town,  which  is 
specklessly  clean  and  bowered  in  vines  and 
creepers.  On  the  Lucy  estate,  hard  by,  is  the 
Shakespeare  style,  made  in  ancient  fashion,  so 
the  upper  bar  drops  and  catches  the  feet  of  the 
poacher  trespassing  on  the  deer  park.    We  regis- 


^96  AiBOUT  BOOKS. 

tered  our  names  in  the  book,  always  open,  where 
every  year  twelve  thousand  are  written,  mainly 
visitors  from  the  dear  land  we  love  to  call  our 
own.  Two  quaint  women  keep  the  place,  and 
tell  their  story  with  a  freshness  which  cheers  the 
tired  traveler.  Again  I  touch  the  ceiling  of  the 
room  where  ''the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world" 
was  born,  and  mark  the  low  doorways,  the 
cramped  and  crooked  stairs  leading  to  the  loft  in 
which  he  used  to  sleep  among  the  rolls  of  wool. 
There  is  the  chimney  seat  where  the  lad  must 
have  warmed  his  feet  and  watched  the  -embers  of 
the  hearth  turn  to  phantoms  dim  and  gray.  Im- 
mortal beings  were  all  about  us.  They  filled  the 
air,  peopled  the  spaces,  flitted  by  on  noiseless 
wing  and  swung  on  threads  of  gossamer  in  the 
tree-tops.  The  pleasant  spirits  came  unsought 
and  without  call.  Mysterious  footfalls  left  no 
sound  or  imprint  in  the  quiet  streets,  though 
august  shapes  attended  us.  We  felt  the  majestic 
presence  of  Lear  and  of  the  Roman  sweeping  by 
in  gorgeous  robe,  surrounded  by  centurions — 
a  mighty  company.  The  winds  whispered  sweet 
secrets,  and  swaying  boughs  sheltered  troops 
of  harmless  little  folks  tripping  it  on  fairy  feet. 
Fairest  and  palest  of  shades  among  many  fair 
and  pale  were  Juliet,  all  beautiful,  and  the  gentle 
lady  wedded  to  the  Moor.    They  joined  our  walk 


ABOUT  BOOKS.  297 

and  hovered  along  our  way  till  chased  back  home 
by  the  pallid  ghosts  that  slide  on  the  moon- 
beams above  Kenilworth  Castle. 

Not  one  thought  of  the  endless  debate  came 
near  us  that  day.  Among  the  green  haunts  were 
many  shadows,  but  the  cloudy  specter  named 
Bacon  did  not  appear.  Who  wrote  ''Othello," 
the  most  pathetic  of  human  compositions?  As 
well  ask  who  made  the  world. 

Next  to  Shakespeare  stands  Scott.  "Ivanhoe" 
is  a  perfect  romance,  and  the  last  conversation 
of  Rebecca  with  the  Templar  is  worthy  the  great 
master  himself.  The  sylvan  scenes,  with  scented 
woods  and  rushing  brooks,  are  reminders  of  the 
deep  forest  where  Jacques  mused  and  Rosalind 
laughed  at  love  till  he  caught  her  in  his  net. 

It  ill  becomes  one  who  has  not  read  "Robert 
Elsmere"  to  criticise  the  modern  novel  or  tell, 
even  in  this  strict  confidence,  how,  in  the  general 
deluge  of  literature,  the  only  rest  is  found  with  a 
few  souls  counted  worth  saving  from  the  flood. 

Read  mean  books  and  you  think  the  whole 
world  mean.  Better  to  seek  the  demigods  of 
Plutarch,  or  read  tales  of  brave  men  near  our 
time,  who  were  stirred  by  deep  impulses  to  en- 
dure sacrifice  for  a  noble  end.  Though  there  is 
no  opportunity  for  heroic  deeds,  we  can  admire 
and  revere  the  heroes  who  heard  heavenly  voices 


298  ABOUT  BOOKS. 

and  thrilled  with  the  sense  of  great  things,  visible 
and  invisible,  to  be  struggled  for.  So  shall  we, 
too,  be  uplifted. 

The  brief  space  allotted  me  forbids  more  than 
a  hint  of  afternoons  filled  with  the  music  of  the 
poets.  Familiar  are  the  melodies  of  'Tenser- 
oso"  and  "Alegra,"  the  words  of  the  "Ancient 
Mariner,"  of  "Marmion,"  the  "Prisoner  of 
Chillon,"  and  the  voice,  "hollow  like  a  ghost's," 
of  Arthur — the  ideal,  yet  most  real  of  English 
kings — blessing  the  Queen  with  milk-white  arms 
and  golden  hair,  low  lying  at  his  feet. 

When  the  lamps  are  Hghted  then  comes  the 
hour  for  the  household  singer,  the  Cambridge 
poet,  most  beloved  man  of  letters  in  our  genera- 
tion; who  spends  the  evenings  with  him  keeps 
good  company. 


XIV. 


FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Soon  after  the  close  of  the  Crimean  war  there 
was  a  memorial  dinner  in  London,  given  by  Lord 
Stratford  to  the  ranking  ofHcers  of  the  British 
army  and  navy.  Naturally  conversation  turned 
on  the  recent  conflict,  and  toward  the  conclusion 
of  the  entertainment  the  host  suggested  that 
each  guest  should  write  on  a  slip  of  paper  the 
name  connected  with  the  war  which  he  believed 
would  be  most  illustrious  through  future  ages. 
All  wrote  as  requested,  the  ballots  were  collected 
by  the  proposer  of  the  movement,  were  opened 
and  read  amid  enthusiastic  cheers,  for  every  one 
of  them  contained  the  name  of  Florence  Night- 
ingale. 

The  result  has  proved  the  truth  of  that  even- 
ing's prophecy;  a  whole  generation  has  passed 
since  then,  and  who  thinks  of  the  dead  and  gone 
generals  who  fell  at  the  storming  of  the  Mala- 
kofT?  The  elocutionist  gives  the  ''Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade"  without  knowing  who  obeyed 

the  bitter  blunder;  the  military  student  may  re- 
299 


300  FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE. 

call  the  hero  of  Kinglake's  history — the  beloved 
Raglan — and  possibly  some  veteran  dimly  re- 
members the  commander  of  the  gray  hosts  of  the 
Vladimir,  but  the  sweet  name  of  Florence  Night- 
ingale is  dear  in  almost  every  home  where  the 
English  language  is  spoken. 

Ancient  Scutari,  the  largest  city  on  the  Asian 
shore  of  the  Bosphorus,  is  overlaid  with  history, 
far-reaching  and  full  of  association  which  stirs 
the  deep  waters  of  memory.  It  was  the  haunt  of 
hordes  in  the  mythic  period;  they  are  forgotten. 
Persian  satrap  and  Western  crusader  encamped 
on  the  heights;  they  are  not  mentioned  now, 
nor  is  the  pious  Godfrey  nor  Imperial  Constan- 
tine;  but  every  tourist  is  pointed  to  the  yellow 
building,  used  as  Turkish  barracks,  where  the 
world  has  learned  how  divine  a  woman  may  be 
in  ministry  to  men. 

In  Constantinople  it  was  my  good  fortune  to 
know  an  English  woman  welb  acquainted  with 
the  subject  of  my  sketch,  who  left  England  when 
she  was  about  thirty-six  years  old.  Said  my  in- 
formant, I  have  often  seen  her  in  the  midst  of 
suffering,  and  where  misery  and  despair  were 
deepest  she  was  sure  to  be  found.  Her  figure 
was  slight  and  graceful,  her  manner  dignified,  her 
face  beaming  with  tenderness  for  the  soldiers, 
who  blessed  her  as  she  went  by.    Her  fortitude  at 


FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE.  301 

surgical  operations  passes  belief.  Once,  when 
the  agonies  of  a  patient  in  the  hands  of  surgeons 
put  to  flight  his  attendants,  Miss  Nightingale 
turned  around  and  with  grave  rebuke  called  to 
the  trembling  fugitives:  ''Come  back!  Shame 
on  you  as  Christians !  Shame  on  you  as  wom- 
en!" And  her  courage,  joined  with  what  the 
French  call  the  gift  of  command,  brought  the 
timid  nurses  again  to  their  duty. 

She  was  always  on  her  feet.  "I  never  saw  her 
seated  but  once  in  a  council  of  surgeons,  who 
hated  her  because  she  broke  through  their  rou- 
tine and  refused  submission  to  regulations." 
From  the  bloody  heights  of  Inkerman  nine  hun- 
dred wounded  were  sent  to  Scutari.  She  de- 
manded mattresses,  stores  for  the  sick,  locked  in 
the  custom  house  or  lying  in  the  ships  in  the  har- 
bor, and  was  told  three  days  was  the  shortest 
time  in  which  they  could  be  unloaded  and  dis- 
tributed, and  the  rules  of  the  service  could  not 
be  transgressed  to  save  even  a  thousand  men. 
She  hastened  to  the  magazine,  told  the  sergeant 
of  the  guard  who  she  was,  and  asked  if  he  would 
take  an  order  from  her.  He  replied  he  would. 
She  commanded  him  to  break  down  the  door, 
for  the  men  would  arrive  in  a  few  hours  and  no 
beds  were  ready.  That  incomparable  woman 
stood  all  day,  ordering,  arranging,  distributing 


302  FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE. 

in  the  midst  of  unspeakable  misery,  her  appear- 
ance everywhere  a  sign  of  good  comfort,  and  so 
touched  with  heavenly  charm  that  virtue  seemed 
to  go  out  from  her  garments  in  the  press  of  the 
crowd. 

Night  was  her  accepted  time.  When  the  at- 
tendant and  medical  oflficers  slept,  and  silence 
and  darkness  settled  on  the  long  lines  of  cots, 
holding  broken  wrecks  of  the  bloom  and  flower 
of  English  soldiery,  she  walked  the  dreary  cor- 
ridors alone.  A  little  lamp  in  her  hand  scarcely 
illumined  the  gloom  a  few  feet  around  her,  but  it 
was  cheering  as  sunlight,  an  omen  of  hope  to  the 
hopeless.  Now  she  whispered  holy  words  to 
a  youth  moaning  in  half-sleep  of  home  and 
mother,  now  smoothed  the  pillow  of  some  wasted 
skeleton  from  the  trenches,  or  lightly  touched 
the  limbs  straightening  for  the  grave.  What 
wonder  that  hundreds  kissed  her  shadow  as  it  fell, 
and,  soothed  by  her  benign  presence,  turned  on 
their  narrow  beds  and  closed  their  eyes  to  pleas- 
ant dreams. 

"As  if  a  door  in  Heaven  should  be 
Opened,  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent." 

When  her  work  was  ended  and  peace  declared 
honors  were  showered  on  her.    The  Cross  of  St. 


FLORENCE    NIGHTINGALE.  303 

George  was  presented  by  Queen  Victoria,  en- 
graved, "Blessed  are  the  Merciful."  An  exqui- 
site bracelet  came  from  the  Sultan,  but  she  stead- 
ily refused  all  moneys.  A  man-of-war  was  placed 
at  her  disposal  on  the  return  voyage  to  England; 
she  declined  the  distinction  and  traveled  through 
France  by  night  in  order  to  save  publicity.  Sore 
need  had  she  of  rest  and  quiet;  though  pros- 
trated bodily  by  the  long  strain,  her  spirit  was 
undaunted.  From  her  darkened  chamber  and 
invalid  chair  she  spoke  cheerfully  to  the  infirm  of 
heart  and  purpose  who  sought  her  counsel,  wrote 
letters  to  unknown  correspondents  and  patiently 
listened  to  intrusive  appeals  which  must  have 
appeared  trivial  to  her  comprehensive  mind. 
Her  heart  beat  for  all  humanity,  and  before  her 
noble  nature  nothing  was  too  petty  or  mean  for 
interest.  To  the  last  she  was  a  comforter,  brave 
and  busy,  refined  and  delicate,  forgetful  of  noth- 
ing but  self. 

In  Athens,  at  Mrs.  Hiirs  American  School  for 
Girls,  there  are  two  portraits  of  Florence  Night- 
ingale. One  as  she  went  out  to  the  Crimea,  the 
other  as  she  returned.  And  O  the  difference! 
She  started,  a  young  woman;  she  went  home 
three  years  afterward  an  old  woman. 


XV. 


TWO  DAYS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

"Let's  talk  of  graves, 
Of  worms  and  epitaphs." 

—King  Richard  II. 

Introductory. 

To  my  friend  who  asks,  "Why  write  about 
these  old  things,  old  as  the  hills,  centuries  before 
we  were  born?" 

I  will  not  insult  your  intelligence,  O  Beloved, 
by  suspicion  that  anything  said  of  Westminster 
Abbey  can  bring  the  charm  of  novelty  to  one  of 
mature  years.  Happily  for  the  human  family, 
youth  never  forsakes  this  world,  and  bright  eyes 
undimmed  by  tears  or  study  may  fill  to  overflow 
at  my  little  tale  of  the  Princes  strangled  in  the 
Tower,  and  a  fresh  recital  of  the  woes  of  fair 
Arabella  Stuart. 

The  returned  traveler  is  fond  of  sailing  the  sea 

again;  of  telling  the  horrors  of  sea-sickness;  of 

eight  days  and  nights  in  the  narrow  berth, — ^but 

one  bed  is  narrower,  colder,  harder. 
305 


.306  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

"What  in  the  world  is  there  to  pay  for  that?" 
asked  the  patient  Hstener. 

"The  first  day  in  Westminster  Abbey." 

Especially  does  the  voyageur  expatiate  on  the 
awful  storm  off  Newfoundland;  when  for  thirty 
hours  we  heard  the  fog  horn  sounding  danger, 
danger,  danger;  when  thick  darkness  enveloped 
the  vessel,  which  groaned  like  a  living  thing 
beaten  by  mountain  billows,  every  timber  shriek- 
ing as  in  agony,  and  it  seemed  that  nothing  made 
by  mortal  hand  could  survive  the  fierce  assault 
of  warring  wind  and  raging  waters. 

Sometimes  the  steamer  appeared  to  stand  up- 
right in  air  and  again  to  lie  on  its  side.  The 
hatches  closed,  the  air  was  poison,  the  floors 
flooded.  Then  the  lights  went  out  and  we  would 
go  down,  down  to  the  deepest  depth,  beating 
along  the  sea-floor  among  the  dead  of  thousands 
of  years.    I  saw  their  ghosts  in  the  dark. 

She  yawned  in  my  face — this  radiant  daughter 
of  our  golden  age — and  inquired,  "What  paid  for 
that  dreadful  experience?"  "The  second  day  in 
Westminster  Abbey." 

The  dimensions  of  the  Abbey  are: 

Feet. 
Exterior. — Length     from    east     to    west,     including 

walls,  but  exclusive  of  Henry  VII. 's  Chapel  416 
Height  of  the  West  Tower  to   top   of   pin- 
nacles    225 


HISTORIC  307 

Interior. — Length  within   the   walls   to   the  piers   of 

Henry  VII.'s  Chapel 383 

Breadth  at  the  Transept 203 

Nave. — Length 166 

Breadth =     38 

Height 102 

Breadth  of  each  aisle 17 

Extreme  breadth  of  nave  and  its  aisles 72 

Choir.— Length 156 

Breadth 31 

Height 102 

Historic. 

There  is  an  ancient  legend  that  this  magnifi- 
cent cathedral,  the  most  venerated  fabric  of  the 
English  Church,  is  founded  on  the  ruins  of  a 
pagan  temple;  but  Sir  Christopher  Wren  and 
other  architects,  after  nicest  examinations,  de- 
cided against  the  tradition.  Whatever  it  may- 
have  been,  it  now  is  the  final  sanctuary  of  Eng- 
lishmen of  every  rank  and  creed  and  every  form 
of  mind  and  genius;  a  consecrated  burial  ground. 
It  is  not  often  the  sight-seer  on  pilgrimage  of 
half  a  century,  says  heartily,  with  the  freshness 
of  unworn  enthusiasm:  *This  is  just  what  I  ex- 
pected!" But  we  said  it  at  Westminster  Abbey. 
The  building  in  the  heart  "of  the  grand  old  city 
was  familiar  by  picture  and  description;  in  its 
solemn  magnificence  recognizable  at  the  first 
glance,  and  even  more  imposing  in  its  union  of 


3o8  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

lightness  and  strength  than  fancy  had  imagined 
it.  In  no  other  portion  of  this  earth  is  there  so 
much  dust  made  from  the  fine  clay  of  which 
Nature  is  most  sparing.  Nowhere  is  there  such 
an  array  of  glorious  names.  Even  the  spot  where 
Caesar  fell  is  less  illustrious.  Well  has  it  been 
called  the  temple  of  science  and  reconciliation, 
where  the  enmities  of  twenty  generations  lie  bur- 
ied. Men  who  hated,  fought;  women  who  in- 
trigued, schemed,  murdered,  lie  here  within  a 
few  feet  of  each  other,  brought  to  a  common  rest 
by  the  hand  which  levels  all  ranks  as  they  pass 
under  its  mighty  shadow. 

Slowly  we  moved,  with  reverent  step,  down 
the  vast  nave,  written  over  with  names  of  kings 
and  kinglike  men,  heroes  of  peace  and  war,  a 
''chapel-of-ease"  for  the  still  sleepers,  and  recalled 
the  words  of  one  who  was  afterward  buried  in 
the  spot  where  he  so  often  rambled.  "When  I 
see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them; 
when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or 
the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their 
contests  and  disputes,  I  reflect,  with  sorrow  and 
astonishment,  on  the  little  competitions,  factions, 
and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  sev- 
eral dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yes- 
terday and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  con- 
sider that  great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be 


HISTORIC.  309 

contemporaries  and  make  our  appearance  to- 
gether." There  is  the  greatest  variety  of  monu- 
ment and  epitaph,  recording,  unconsciously, 
changes  of  taste  and  varying  standards  of  art 
from  age  to  age.  In  the  antique  ef^gies  every 
variation  of  sepulchral  attitude  is  visible,  from 
the  crusader  of  the  thirteenth  century,  with 
crossed  legs  on  his  flinty  couch,  to  the  states- 
man of  our  own  times,  with  legs  crossed  in  an 
attitude  by  no  means  deathlike,  sitting  in  his 
own  study  chair.  The  old  statue,  done  by  'pren- 
tice hand,  finds  place  here,  not  to  be  banished  or 
despised  because  it  suffers  by  comparison  with 
works  from  the  chisel  of  Chantrey. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  inflict  the  guide-book  on 
the  reader  for  whom  I  write.  He  probably 
knows  the  architecture  of  the  Abbey  is  florid 
Gothic;  that  it  was  founded  in  the  seventh  cen- 
tury by  Sebert,  King  of  the  East  Saxons;  was 
destroyed  by  the  Danes;  rebuilt;  at  various 
times  received  additions,  and  the  final  grace  of 
its  haughty  and  rhythmic  arches  in  1822. 

No  other  coronation  rite  reaches  back  to  so 
early  a  period  as  that  of  the  sovereigns  of  Great 
Britain.  The  tradition  runs  that  Arthur  was 
crowned  at  Stonehenge;  but  from  the  time  of 
William  the  Conqueror,  the  fierce,  powerful 
Norman,  standing  on  the  grave  of  the  fair,  sen- 


3IO  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

sitive,  feeble  Saxon  buried  under  the  high  altar, 
the  ceremony  of  coronation  inalienably  attaches 
to  the  Abbey;  and  even  when  a  prince  has  been 
enthroned  elsewhere,  the  ceremony  must  be  re- 
peated here.  The  first  coronation,  more  than 
eight  hundred  years  ago,  was  a  strange  one.  On 
Christmas,  the  usual  coronation  day  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  sovereigns,  the  Conqueror  (he  of  the  pon- 
derous glove  and  iron  hand)  appeared  with  his 
courtiers  and  his  army.  Outside  the  church, 
guarding  him  from  his  new  subjects,  were  his 
tried  Norman  cavalry;  the  interior  was  packed 
with  Norman  nobles  and  Saxon  people.  To 
each  a  question  was  addressed — to  the  Norman 
in  French,  by  a  French  prelate;  to  the  Eng- 
lish in  English,  by  an  English  prelate,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  York — whether  they  would  have  this 
King  to  reign  over  them.  A  great  welcome 
thundered  to  the  vaulted  roof.  So  loud  and 
fierce  was  the  discord  of  the  two  languages,  that 
the  Norman  soldiers  outside,  hearing,  but  not 
understanding  the  cry,  burst  in  upon  the  church. 
A  strange  panic,  flight,  and  bloody  massacre  fol- 
lowed, and  the  Abbey  was  left  almost  empty,  the 
uncrowned  King,  with  the  assistant  clergy, 
standing  alone  by  the  altar. 

The  record  runs  that  the  hero  of  Hastings, 
who  had  never  quailed  in  his  life  before,  was  so 


HISTORIC.  3" 

terrified  by  the  scene,  that  he  remained  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot  in  a  paroxysm  of  fear. 
The  sacred  forms  were  hurried  through,  the  oil 
was  poured  on  his  face,  the  holy  anointing  clum- 
sily finished,  the  crown  was  planted  on  his  huge 
head,  and  so  was  begun,  in  fright  and  murder, 
the  series  of  those  august  ceremonies  which  have 
since  never  ceased  to  be  celebrated  within  these 
venerable  walls. 

When  the  crown  is  lifted,  the  peers  and  peer- 
esses put  on  their  coronets,  the  trumpets  sound, 
and  by  a  signal  given,  the  great  guns  in  the 
Tower  are  fired  in  the  same  instant.  Here  the 
royal  children  are  christened,  married,  and  here 
the  dead  are  buried.  From  the  time  of  Edward 
the  Confessor,  till  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  none 
but  those  of  kingly  blood  were  allowed  room  in 
this  august  sepulcher.  Royalty  has  never  been 
the  same  in  England  since  the  days  Cromwell 
denied  the  "divine  right  of  kings  to  govern 
wrong,"  and  among  the  princes  whose  power  he 
was  first  to  break  he  was  laid  away;  but  not  to 
rest  in  solemn  pomp. 

In  the  barbarous  ceremonial  following  the 
restoration,  his  discontented  bones  were  dragged 
to  Tyburn,  hanged,  beheaded,  and  buried  under 
the  gallows.  His  head  was  planted  on  the  top 
of  Westminster  Hall,  and  from  that  exhibition 


312  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

became  the  property  of  a  museum,  or,  if  we 
credit  the  legends  of  showmen,  of  several  mu- 
seums in  England. 

The  genius,  valor,  and  patriotism  of  the  Pro- 
tector are  recognized  by  the  country  which  owes 
to  him  some  of  her  most  precious  elements  of 
strength.  His  name  remains  in  Westminster, 
and  laid  asleep  by  death,  makes  no  mention  of 
the  blood  spot  on  his  hand,  or  of  the  fact  that 
the  only  desecration  the  Abbey  has  received  in 
all  these  ages  has  been  by  the  Puritan  soldiers 
quartered  there  in  1643.  They  burnt  the  altar 
rails,  sat  on  benches  round  the  communion  ta- 
ble, drinking,  smoking,  singing;  broke  many 
altars,  images;  defaced  tombs,  and  shattered  the 
pictured  windows. 

Some  of  the  oldest  inscriptions  are  amusing 
as  New  Hampshire  epitaphs.  Take  this,  written 
in  decayed  and  decaying  letters,  at  the  base  of  a 
pedestal  and  pyramid: 

"Nicolas  Bagenall,  a  child  two  months  old, 
overlaid  by  his  nurse,  died  1688."  Why  being 
smothered  in  that  ignoble  way  should  be 
thought  worthy  so  lasting  a  record  in  this  noble 
burial  place,  is  to  the  writer  a  deep,  unfathomable 
mystery. 

Here  is  another  from  the  Chapel  of  Edward 
the  Confessor,  where  many  monuments  are  so 


HISTORIC  313 

timeworn  and  dilapidated  that  the  crumbhng  let- 
ters are  almost  illegible.  There  were  poets  in 
those  days,  as  is  witnessed  by  the  tomb  of  Sophia, 
daughter  of  James  First,  who  died  in  1607,  aged 
three  days: 

"When  the  Archangel's  trumpet  shall  blow, 
And  souls  to  bodies  shall  join, 
Millions  will  wish  their  lives  below 
Had  been  so  short  as  thine." 

Observe  the  melody  and  grace  of  the  versifi- 
cation, the  excellence  of  the  sentiment  equaled 
only  by  the  musical  rhythm  of  the  singer.  The 
design  of  Baby  Sophy's  monument  I  have  never 
seen  elsewhere;  a  cradle  of  alabaster,  once  pre- 
sumably white  as  sculptured  snow,  now  discol- 
ored by  time,  dust  and  smoke,  and  spotted  yel- 
low and  brown  as  an  Autumn  leaf.  The  top  is 
overarched  at  one  end,  and  under  this  canopy 
appears  a  chubby  little  face,  covered  to  the  chin 
with  an  embroidered  coverlet,  wrought  to  high 
and  delicate  finish  in  the  exquisite  marble.  It 
was  a  happy  thought  to  perpetuate  the  little 
Sophy's  face  sleeping  in  her  cradle,  which  is  it- 
self the  tamb,  and  touched  me  deeply.  A  model 
that  might  be  copied  in  our  own  green  ceme- 
teries, carpeted  with  violets  and  heart's  ease, 
where  mothers  loiter  on  quiet  Sundays,  and 
21 


314  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

whisper  words  full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart- 
break. 

The  vandals  are  roving  tribes  not  confined  to 
America  in  their  wanderings,  and  here  ambitious 
savages  have  scribbled  unmeaning  names,  other- 
wise lost  to  history.  Some  have  even  gone  so 
far  as  to  carve  their  initials  in  the  sculptured 
faces  of  the  honored  dead,  and  add  the  date  of 
the  desecration. 

There  is  a  quaintness  and  simpHcity  in  the 
verses  of  the  older  graves  not  found  in  those  of 
a  later  date.  Take  this  on  the  tablet  of  Grace 
Scott,  died  1644: 

"He  that  will  give  my  Grace  but  what  is  hers, 
Must  say  her  death  hath  not 
Made  only  her  deare  Scott, 
But  Virtue,  Worth  and  Sweetness  widdowers." 

And  did  he,  the  first  of  those  four  "widdow- 
ers," cry  his  eyes  out  for  a  day,  then  wipe  them 
dry,  go  a-courting  in  his  mourning  suit,  and 
marry  again  within  a  year?  I  wonder  how  it 
was  in  those  old  times. 

It  must  be  admitted  the  Abbey  of  Westmin- 
ster, the  most  lovely  and  loveable  thing  in  Chris- 
tendom, as  it  has  been  affectionately  called,  is  a 
very  dirty  place,  and  the  dust  and  grime  of  the 
monuments  lie  in  heavy  deposits,  giving  the  im- 


HISTORIC  315 

pression  of  neglect.  In  time-worn  gray  marble 
the  effigy  of  Edward  Third  lies,  at  his  head  his 
sword  and  shield,  carried  before  him  to  France. 
The  sword  is  seven  feet  long,  and  weighs 
eighteen  pounds;  a  mass  of  rust,  in  high  con- 
trast with  the  niceness  with  which  the  French 
guard  the  sacred  relics  of  the  Louvre.  In  that 
palace  is  the  old  sword  of  Charlemagne,  under 
polished  glass,  not  a  speck  of  dust  on  the  velvet 
scabbard.  No  trace  of  the  god-like  grace  of 
Edward  remains  in  the  blackened  stone  which 
bears  his  name  and  features,  carved,  it  may  be, 
by  skillful  hands,  now  moldering  and  marred  by 
effacing  fingers,  busy  as  Time  itself. 

The  west  end  of  the  Abbey  was  formerly  the 
Almonry,  where  the  alms  of  the  Abbey  were  dis- 
tributed, more  remarkable  for  being  the  place 
where  the  first  printing-press  ever  known  in 
England  was  erected,  when  William  Caxton  pro- 
duced the  "Game  and  Play  of  Chesse,"  the  first 
book  ever  printed  on  the  Island.  And  here  the 
first  English  Bible  was  issued,  an  upspringing 
light  break:ing  the  bands  of  darkness  which  had 
settled  on  the  moral,  social,  political  life  of  the 
nation.  The  morning  star  of  the  Reformation 
had  risen  and  Wickliffe's  Bible  was  multiplied  by 
thousands;  no  more  to  be  the  object  of  careful 
destructive  search  as  in  the  days  of  persecution; 


3l6  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

to  shrivel  in  fires  of  war  or  to  be  burned,  with 
those  who  loved  the  name  of  Christ,  in  the  public 
squares.  Let  me  enrich  my  page  with  the  glow- 
ing sentences  of  Dr.  Storrs:  "By  this  Bible  the 
grandest  poetry  became  England's  possession; 
the  sovereign  law,  on  which  the  blaze  of  Sinai 
shone,  or  which  glowed  with  serener  light  of 
divinity  from  the  Mount  of  Beatitudes.  Inspired 
minds  came  out  of  the  past — Moses,  David, 
Isaiah,  John,  the  man  of  Idumea,  the  man  of 
Tarsus — to  teach  the  long-desiring  English 
mind.  It  gave  peasants  the  privilege  of  those 
who  had  heard  Elijah's  voice  in  the  ivory  pal- 
aces, of  those  who  had  seen  the  heaven  opened 
by  the  river  of  Chebar,  of  those  who  had  gath- 
ered before  the  temples  made  with  hands  which 
crowned  the  Acropolis.  They  looked  into  the 
faces  of  apostles  and  martyrs,  of  seers  and  kings, 
and  walked  with  Abraham  in  the  morning  of 
Time." 

Andre  and  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

In  the  south  aisle  of  Westminster  is  the  me- 
morial which  comes  nearest  home  to  us;  a  last- 
ing trace  of  our  Revolutionary  struggle,  mark- 
ing one  of  its  saddest  episodes.  The  remains  of 
Major  John  Andre,  executed  as  a  spy  by  the 


ANDRE  AND  MARY.  3^7 

Americans,  1780,  lie  close  beneath  our  feet.  The 
bas-relief  on  the  sarcophagus  of  statuary  marble 
represents  the  flag  of  truce  being  conveyed  to 
Washington  with  the  letter  of  Andre,  containing 
this  touching  petition,  addressed  to  him:  *'If 
aught  in  my  character  impresses  you  with  es- 
teem toward  me;  if  aught  in  my  misfortunes 
marks  me  as  the  victim  of  policy  and  not  of  re- 
sentment, I  shall  experience  the  operation  of 
these  feelings  in  your  breast  by  being  informed 
that  I  am  not  to  die  on  a  gibbet." 

The  expression  of  so  high  and  manly  an  im- 
pulse stirs  the  reader  even  at  this  late  hour.  The 
conduct  of  the  Commander-in-Chief  thus  ad- 
dressed does  equal  honor  to  his  noble  nature; 
but  by  the  laws  of  nations  pardon  would  have 
been  a  departure  from  his  unswerving  fidelity  to 
a  cause  that  gave  us  independence  through  re- 
treats and  skirmishes. 

Andre's  magnetism  was  wonderful,  and  all 
who  came  within  his  influence  confessed  the 
charm  of  his  presence.  He  was  handsome,  frank, 
engaging,  with  an  elegant  turn  of  mind  and  taste 
for  art.  In  conversation  with  Hamilton,  he 
mentioned  the  candor,  liberality,  and  indulgence 
with  which  his  trial  was  conducted,  and  wrote 
Sir  Henry  Clinton:  "I  receive  the  greatest  at- 
tention from  His  Excellency,  General  Washing- 


3l8  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

ton,  and  from  every  person  in  whose  charge  I 
happen  to  be  placed."  His  fate  moved  the  whole 
country  to  sympathy.  On  the  day  of  execution 
the  sentinels  served  with  tears  and  the  populace 
wept  over  the  untimely  death  of  one  so  gifted 
and  so  beloved.  His  love  story  stirred  the  hearts 
of  sympathetic  women  who  knew  the  miniature 
of  sweet  Honora  Sneyd  was  not  unwound 
from  the  prisoner's  neck  till  he  went  out  to  exe- 
cution, and  some  kind  woman's  hand  planted 
two  cedars  above  the  grave  after  it  was 
smoothed.  It  is  said  that  Washington  never, 
but  once,  even  by  his  own  fireside,  alluded  to  the 
doom  of  Andre. 

When  his  body  was  removed  from  the  green 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  where  it  had  been  buried 
under  the  gallows  nearly  forty  years,  the  skeleton 
was  entire.  A  few  locks  of  his  beautiful  hair, 
and  the  leather  string  which  tied  them  were 
found,  gathered  up  with  pitying  care,  and  sent 
to  his  sisters  in  England.  A  pile  of  stones  had 
guarded  the  spot  inviolate  from  the  plowman's 
rude  furrow.  When  the  remains  were  taken 
away,  a  peach-tree,  whose  roots  had  penetrated 
the  coffin  and  wound  around  the  skull,  was 
taken  up  and  transplanted  to  the  King's  garden 
behind  Castleton  House.  An  old  lady  died  in 
the  present  century  who  had,  as  a  little  girl,  of- 


ANDRE  AND   MARY.  319 

fered  the  prisoner  a  peach  while  he  was  on  his 
way  to  execution.  She  loved  to  tell  of  his  beauty 
and  grace  and  cry  over  the  cruel  necessity  which 
brought  him  to  such  a  death.  Isaac  Van  Wart, 
one  of  his  captors,  watched  the  last  breath  of  the 
gallant  spy,  and  could  rarely  afterward  be  per- 
suaded to  speak  of  it,  and  never  without  tears. 
An  old  Revolutionary  soldier,  Enos  Reynolds, 
used  to  tell  the  story  with  tears  running  down 
his  cheeks:  ''He  was  the  handsomest  man  I 
ever  laid  my  eyes  on,  and  all  the  men  around 
were  weeping  when  he  met  his  death."  As  every 
possible  amenity  was  given  the  victim  of  the 
laws  of  war,  so  when  the  body  was  disinterred, 
an  Englishman  records:  "The  courtesy  and 
good  feeling  of  the  Americans  were  remark- 
able." The  bier  was  decorated  with  garlands 
and  flowers  when  it  was  transported  to  the  ship, 
and  royal  Republicans,  with  moistened  eyes  and 
quivering  lips,  watched  the  mournful  procession. 
The  old  woman  who  kept  the  turnpike  gate, 
opened  it  free  to  all  who  came  and  went  on  this 
excursion;  and  six  young  girls  of  New  York 
united  in  a  poem  that  accompanied  the  myrtle 
tree  they  sent,  with  the  body,  to  England.  Not 
one  hardened  or  indifferent  person  was  present 
among  the  crowd  that  day.  The  monument  to 
him  at  Tappan,  New  York,  was  chipped  away  by 


320  WESTMINSTETl  ABBEY. 

relic-hunters  and  finally  blown  up  with  nitro- 
glycerin. The  place  now  has  an  air  of  desola- 
tion, and  the  railing  is  rusty  and  broken  down, 
so  the  locality  will  soon  belong  to  tradition  and 
memory. 

Romance,  chivalry,  poetry,  have  touched  the 
name  of  the  unfortunate  Andre  with  color  that 
charms  the  imagination  and  memory  of  men. 
My  readers  are  familiar  with  it,  and  deplore  the 
fate  of  the  young  hero  whose  just  sentence  was 
passed  by  a  tribunal  of  his  peers;  but  how  many 
American  readers  know  half  the  story  of  Nathan 
Hale?  Brief  be  the  tale  told  here  by  the  grave 
of  a  spy  in  the  opposing  army. 

He  was  a  graduate  of  Yale,  and  left  his  pur- 
pose of  becoming  a  minister  to  join  the  cause  of 
liberty.  "Everybody  loved  him,"  said  a  lady  of 
his  acquaintance,  "he  was  so  sprightly,  intelli- 
gent, and  kind  and  so  handsome."  Captain  Hale 
volunteered  his  services  as  a  spy  to  Washington, 
was  arrested  in  the  British  lines,  and  the  next 
morning,  without  even  the  form  of  trial,  was  de- 
livered to  Cunningham  to  be  executed.  This 
Cunning-ham  was  a  special  pet  of  Lord  George 
Germain,  Secretary  for  the  Colonies,  and  was  a 
disgrace  to  the  service.  He  caused  the  murder 
by  starvation  or  poison  of  2,000  American  pris- 
oners, that  he  might,  while  he  starved  them, 


ANDRE  AND  MARY.  321 

profit  by  the  sale  of  their  rations.  The  gentle, 
fearless  Hale  was  treated  with  great  inhumanity 
by  the  brutal  provost-marshal.  The  presence 
of  a  clergyman  and  the  use  of  a  Bible  were  denied 
by  Cunningham,  and  even  the  letters  which  he 
had  been  permitted  by  Howe  to  write  to  his 
mother  and  sisters  during  the  one  night  of  his 
imprisonment  were  destroyed.  He  was  hanged 
on  a  tree  near  the  present  intersection  of  East 
Broadway  and  Market  streets.  His  last  words 
were:  'T  only  regret  that  I  have  but  one  life  to 
give  to  my  country." 

Why  do  I  tell  this  old  tale  here?  Because, 
dear  reader,  it  is  sometimes  the  fashion  to  call 
the  treatment  of  Andre  a  "blot"  on  the  white 
name  of  Washington.  Both  these  young  officers 
justly  suffered  death  by  the  laws  and  usages  of 
war;  both  are  to  be  deplored,  and  most  of  all 
the  necessity  which  makes  such  procedure  in- 
evitable. Pardon  this  digression.  When  you 
grieve  over  Andre  do  not  forget  the  name  of 
Nathan  Hale. 

Had  Arnold  succeeded  in  his  treason,  the  body 
of  Washington  would  have  been  dismembered 
and  his  head  would  have  rotted  away  on  Temple 
Bar. 

Pass  we  on. 

In  a  magnificent  tomb  in  the  south  aisle  repose 


322  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

the  ashes  of  Mary,  unhappy  Queen  of  Scots, 
whose  history,  oft-repeated  in  every  year  of  its 
three  hundred  years,  charms  us  yet.  She  is  one 
of  the  dear  dead  women,  in  our  imagination,  for- 
ever fresh  and  unfaded,  who  had  a  mystic  witch- 
ery over  the  hearts  of  men.  She  was  born  to 
the  power  which  makes  them  slaves,  fools,  mad- 
men. No  man  ever  saw  her  without  admira- 
tion, or  heard  her  history  without  regret.  That 
face,  melancholy  as  moonlight  and  as  fair,  shines 
through  the  clouds  which  encompass  it  from  the 
hour  of  her  piteous  farewell  to  the  pleasant  land 
of  France  to  the  last  scene  which  ends  her 
strange,  eventful  history  in  the  dim  castle  hall 
at  Fotheringay  Castle.  Through  the  thunders 
of  John  Knox  at  mass,  the  spell  of  her  beauty 
enthralls  us;  in  the  romantic  intrigues,  the  flight 
and  escape  from  the  water-girdled  castle  of  Loch- 
leven  it  is  supreme.  Nor  do  we  abate  our  fealty 
in  the  gloom  three  centuries  have  failed  to  clear 
away  from  the  mystery  that  hangs  over  the  Kirk 
of  the  field.  So  long  as  youth  warms  at  tales  of 
chivalrous  devotion,  Mary  Stuart's  fair  fame  is 
secure  despite  the  name  of  Bothwell.  Nor  will 
there  ever  be  wanting  defenders  for  her  passion 
for  the  Earl  with  the  fair  curling  beard,  a  gentle- 
man of  ancient  lineage  with  the  manners  of  a 
great  lord,  who  bore  himself  haughtily  as  a  feu- 


MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  3^3 

dal  noble.  Such  was  his  domination  over  Mary 
that  the  ladies  of  her  court  attributed  it  to  necro- 
mancy. The  secret  was  the  magic  power  of  a 
fine  person,  "built  more  Hke  a  tower  than  a 
man;"  a  resolute,  unbroken  will,  and  that  un- 
changeable loyalty  which  has  won  many  a 
stronger  woman  than  the  frail  Queen  of  Scot- 
land. While  the  English  language  endures 
school  girls  will  argue  and  college  boys  debate 
the  question,  had  she  come  to  the  throne  would 
we  have  had  another  bloody  Mary?  Was  she 
or  was  she  not  guilty? 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

Often  as  we  think  of  the  prisoner,  who,  in  nine- 
teen years,  never  knew  the  rapture  of  freedom, 
arrayed  in  velvet  as  became  the  daughter  of  a 
King,  the  print  of  her  lost  crown  upon  her  brow, 
comforting  her  weeping  maids,  and  with  Christ- 
ian dignity  laying  her  head  upon  the  block,  her 
misfortunes  and  death  seem  an  atonement.  We 
recall  the  faded  face  where  lovely  lines  still  linger, 
the  prematurely  gray  hair,  the  hideous  execu- 
tioner's axe  yet  to  be  seen  in  London  Tower,  the 
headless  body,  the  dripping  life-blood  lapped  up 
by  her  pet  dog,  and  we  say  again  'Toor  Mary," 
and  in  our  hearts  her  sins,  which  are  many,  are 
all  forgiven. 


324  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

She  was  buried  in  the  Cathedral  at  Peter- 
borough, and  over  the  site  of  her  grave  there 
hangs  the  letter  of  her  son  ordering  the  removal 
of  her  body  to  the  Church  of  Westminster,  in 
the  place  where  the  kings  and  queens  of  this 
realm  are  commonly  interred,  that  the  like  honor 
might  be  done  to  the  body  of  his  dearest  mother, 
and  the  like  monument  be  extant  of  her  that  had 
been  done  to  his  dear  sister,  the  late  Queen 
Elizabeth.  In  the  center  of  a  new  vault  in  the 
north  wall  her  leaden  cofifin  was  placed;  a  spot 
afterward  crowded  by  remains  of  her  unfortunate 
descendants.  When  the  royal  vaults  were  in- 
vestigated in  1868  an  awful  scene  came  to  the 
view  of  masons,  workmen,  and  the  Dean  of  the 
Abbey.  A  high  pile  of  leaden  coffins  rose  from 
the  floor,  some  the  size  of  the  full  human  stature, 
but  many  more  of  infants  and  little  children,  all 
confusedly  heaped  or  tossed  about  in  reckless 
disorder  throughout  the  vault  of  brick,  which 
was  more  than  twelve  feet  long.  Along  the 
north  wall,  writes  an  eye-witness,  were  two  cof- 
fins, much  compressed  and  distorted  by  the 
superincumbent  weight  of  four  or  five  lesser  cof- 
fins heaped  upon  them.  No  plate  cbuld  be  found 
on  either.  The  upper  one  was  much  broken,  and 
the  bones,  especially  the  skull,  turned  on  one 
side,  were  distinctly  visible — the  casket  of  Ara- 


MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  3^5 

bella  Stuart,  who  inherited  her  full  share  of  the 
beauty  and  misfortunes  of  her  ill-fated  race. 
The  lower  coffin  was  saturated  with  pitch  and 
was  deeply  compressed  and  flattened  by  the 
weights  above.  It  was  of  solid  and  stately  work, 
shaped  to  meet  the  form;  the  fatal  coffin  which 
had  received  the  headless  corpse  of  Fotheringay. 

It  seemed  indecent  confusion  and  forgetful- 
ness  of  so  much  departed  greatness  gathered 
round  the  famous  and  wonderful  central  figure 
of  the  house  of  Stuart.  As  far  as  possible  the 
wreck  and  ruin  of  the  dynasty  were  reduced  to 
order,  the  neglected  relics  laid  in  becoming  rows 
with  reverential  care.  The  smaller  coffins  were 
lifted  from  above  the  two  larger  ones,  and  placed 
in  an  open  space  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  A  curse 
reserved  for  the  doomed  race  was  fulfilled  in  the 
fact  that  ten  infant  children  of  James  II.  lie  here; 
and  no  less  than  eighteen  children  of  Queen 
Anne  were  found,  of  whom  only  one  required 
the  space  allotted  a  full-grown  child. 

In  the  deadly  chill  of  the  cavernous  chamber, 
over-buried  till  the  marred  shape  was  crushed 
from  its  fair  proportions,  moldered  away  the 
frail  beauty,  forgotten  till  the  site  of  her  grave 
was  matter  of  dispute  with  the  keepers  of  the 
Abbey.  The  victim,  in  the  same  chapel  with  her 
vanquisher,  sleeps  well,  and  her  tomb  was  early 


326  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

visited  by  devout  Scots  as  the  shrine  of  a  can- 
onized saint.  Thirteen  years  after  the  removal 
of  the  ghastly  remains  from  Peterborough,  an 
old  gossip  writes:  "I  hear  that  her  bones,  lately 
translated  to  the  burial-place  of  the  Kings  of 
England  at  Westminster,  are  resplendent  with 
miracles" — the  last  record  of  a  miracle-working 
tomb  in  England. 

The  tenderness  with  which  we  enshroud  the 
unhappy  Queen  of  Scots  is  intensified  in  the 
haunted  house,  where  that  pathetic  dust  is  lying, 
but  a  few  steps  away  from  the  coarser  clay  of  her 
triumphant  rival,  Queen  Elizabeth. 

The  marble  effigy  represents  her  in  the  fa- 
miliar cap,  or  curch,  which  yet  bears  her  name, 
the  classic  face  upturned,  the  hands  petitioning, 
as  in  prayer — lovely  hands,  whose  bluest  veins 
courtiers  proudly  knelt  to  kiss.  Irreverent  visi- 
tors have  broken  and  carried  off  two  fingers,  a 
painful  desecration,  done  no  one  knows  when  or 
by  whom. 

Queen  Elizabeth. 

We  naturally  look  for  the  grave  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  whom  a  strange  destiny  brought  so 
near  to  Mary,  the  unhappy  Queen  of  Scots,  in 
their  safe,  final  resting-place.     On  a  lofty  and 


QUEEN    ELIZABETH.  3^7 

elegant  tablet,  supported  by  four  lions,  lies  the 
statue  of  the  lion-hearted  Queen,  last  of  the  il- 
lustrious house  of  Tudor,  greatest  of  England's 
sovereigns.  Judge  the  wondrous  maid  not  as  a 
woman  but  as  a  ruler.  Consider  the  country  and 
the  government,  when  she  came  to  the  throne, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  the  treasury  empty,  the 
state  weakened  by  exhausting  wars,  the  army  a 
mere  handful  of  ill-armed  men.  See  to  what  a 
height  the  kingdom  rose,  and  how  speedily  its 
strength  departed  when  the  scepter  passed  from 
her  firm  hand  to  the  weak  House  of  Stuart. 

She  was  strong  and  wise,  ready  to  sacrifice 
small  things  for  a  great  end,  and  all  things  for 
the  good  of  her  subjects. 

The  sculptured,  imperious  face  is  strikingly 
like  that  of  the  portrait  of  George  Eliot.  I  have 
thought  their  souls  might  be  akin;  that,  under 
different  training  and  environment,  the  author 
of  "Romola"  might  have  made  a  ruler  of  the  visi- 
ble kingdoms  of  men,  even  as  she  has  swayed  the 
invisible  realm  by  the  compelling  force  of  her 
genius.  Each  of  these  women  had  her  full 
measure  of  glory,  and  their  conduct  in  later 
years  proves  they  had  learned — as,  sooner  or 
later,  all  women  must  learn — ^that  a  little  love  is 
sweeter  than  much  fame. 

The  homely,  high-arched  forehead  and  beaked 


328  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

nose,  the  set  determination  in  the  lines  of  the 
mouth  of  Elizabeth,  make  a  haughty  and  tyran- 
nic face.  The  Loves  and  the  Graces  did  not  flut- 
ter round  the  steps  of  her  who  could  box  the  ears 
of  the  Lord  Lieutenant,  and  send  a  courtier 
with  muddy  boots  in  disgrace  to  the  Tower.  At 
the  same  time  she  was  on  watch  night  and  day, 
steering  the  ship  of  state  through  stormy  seas. 
And  loyal  Englishmen  are  in  the  habit  of  saying 
never  has  it  been  so  uniformly  well  done  except 
in  the  days  of  the  gentle  and  gracious  Victoria. 
Still  is  the  Elizabethan  era  named  the  Golden 
Age,  and  after  eight  generations  have  spent  their 
criticisms  her  name  is  yet  dear  to  the  hearts  of 
her  countrymen. 

While  we  gazed  on  the  rigid  features  free  of 
softness  and  delicacy,  there  rose  a  sense  of  ab- 
surdity in  the  idea  of  scholars,  poets,  statesmen, 
courtiers,  a  shining  ring,  whispering  soft  non- 
sense, mingled  with  sweet  love  songs  in  the  ear  of 
the  withered  maiden  Queen,  in  her  latter  days  a 
witch-like  creature,  haggard  and  to  the  last  de- 
gree unlovely.  Of  the  men  of  letters  who  laid 
their  laurels  at  her  feet,  it  has  been  recorded  that 
they  made  their  period  a  more  glorious  and  im- 
portant era  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind 
than  the  time  of  Pericles,  of  Augustus,  or  of 
Leo. 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH.  3^9 

But  the  great  ruler  never  learned  to  rule  her 
own  spirit. 

Sir  Christopher  Hatton  was  at  one  time  the 
favorite,  rising  rapidly  from  obscurity  to  the  des- 
potic Queen's  right  hand.  Her  pet  names  for 
him  are  quite  original:  ''My  Sheep,""  ''My  Eye- 
lids," and  when  in  high  good  humor,  "My  Most 
Sweet  Lids."  He  possessed  many  accomplish- 
ments and  one  of  Hatton's  rivals  said  the  Vice- 
Chamberlain  danced  into  her  heart  by  his  grace 
in  a  galliard  in  some  theatrical  performance 
given  for  amusement  of  the  Court. 

Here  is  one  of  the  letters  of  the  wily  young 
courtier  to  the  charmer  who  had  seen  the  scat- 
tered roses  of  sixty  summers: 

"June,   iS73- 

"If  I  could  express  my  feelings  of  your  gra- 
cious letters  I  should  utter  unto  you  matter  of 
strange  effect.  In  reading  of  them,  with  my 
tears  I  blot  them;  in  thinking  of  them  I  feel  so 
great  comfort  that  I  find  cause,  as  God  knoweth, 
to  thank  you  on  my  knees.  Death  had  been 
much  more  to  my  advantage  than  to  win  health 
and  life  by  so  loathsome  a  pilgrimage.  The  time 
of  two  days  hath  drawn  me  further  from  you 
than  ten,  when  I  return,  can  lead  me  towards 
you.    Madam,  I  find  the  greatest  lack  that  ever 

22 


330  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

poor  wretch  sustained.  No  death,  no,  not  hell,  no 
fear  of  death,  shall  ever  win  of  me  my  consent  so 
far  to  wrong  myself  again  as  to  be  absent  from 
you  one  day.  God  grant  my  return,  I  will  per- 
form this  vow.  I  lack  that  I  live  by.  The  more 
I  find  this  'lack,  the  further  I  go  from  you. 
Shame  take  them  that  counselled  me  to  it.  The 
life  (as  you  well  remember)  is  too  long  that  loath- 
somely lasteth.  A  true  saying,  Madam;  believe 
him  that  hath  proved  it.  The  great  wisdom  I 
find  in  your  letters  with  your  country  counsels 
are  very  notable;  but  the  last  word  is  worth  the 
Bible.  Truth,  truth,  truth!  Ever  may  it  dwell 
with  you.  I  will  ever  deserve  it.  My  spirit  and 
soul,  I  feel,  agreeth  with  my  body  and  life,  that 
to  serve  you  is  a  heaven,  but  to  lack  you  is  more 
than  a  helFs  torment  unto  them.  My  heart  is 
full  of  woe.  Pardon,  for  God's  sake,  my  tedious 
writing.  It  doth  much  diminish  (for  the  time) 
my  great  griefs.  I  will  wash  away  the  faults  of 
these  letters  with  the  drops  from  your  poor  *lids' 
and  so  enclose  them.  Would  God  I  were  with 
you  but  for  one  hour!  Bear  with  me,  my  most 
sweet,  dear  lady.  Passion  overcometh  me;  I 
can  write  no  more.  Love  me  for  I  love  you. 
Live  forever!  Shall  I  utter  this  familiar  term 
(farewell!),  yea,  ten  thousand,  thousand  farewells. 
He  speaketh  it  that  most  dearly  loveth  you.    I 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH.  331 

hold  you  too  long.    Once  again  I  crave  pardon 
and  so  bid  your  own  poor  'Lids/  farewell. 
".Your  bondsman  everlastingly  tied, 

''Cu.  Hatton." 

If  the  most  sweet,  dear  lady  wrote  any  love 
letters  it  is  not  known — none  have  come  down 
to  us.  Perhaps  she  was  discreet  enough  to  send 
only  verbal  messages  that  could  be  denied 
should  it  be  thought  expedient.  We  cannot 
imagine  the  Sovereign  Lady  of  the  Kohinoor 
calling  her  Lord  Chancellor  her  "most  sweet 
Eyelids,"  or  receiving  such  an  epistle  from 
"Lids"  himself.  We  are  living  in  a  more  re- 
served and  delicate  generation  than  that  of  the 
lion  Queen. 

The  portraits  of  Hampton  Court  and  the 
waxen  efifigy  in  the  Tower  are  very  like,  and  by 
that  comparison  must  be  correct  likenesses.  She 
had,  with  the  Tudor  lust  of  power,  mingled  the 
caprices  and  vanity  of  Anne  Boleyn;  and  her 
three  thousand  robes,  fit  for  use,  attest  the  femi- 
nine failing  of  extravagance. 

A  strange  mixture  of  strength  and  frailty;  at 
the  age  of  seventy,  doting  on  the  handsome, 
chivalrous  Essex,  yet  condemning  him  to  the 
vilest  of  deaths;  and  then  remorsefully  lament- 
ing him  as  she  tossed  in  feverish  unrest  on  the 


332  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

cushioned  floor  of  Richmond  Palace.  What  a 
comment  on  the  vanity  of  human  wishes  are  her 
last  words,  gasped  out  between  heart-breaking 
moans:  ^'All  my  possessions  for  one  moment  of 
time!" 

Her  body  was  brought  by  the  Thames  to 
Westminster.  On  the  oaken  covering  of  the 
leaden  cof(in  were  engraved  the  double  rose  and 
the  august  initials  ''E.  R.,  1603."  Raleigh  was 
on  duty  as  captain  of  the  guard,  his  last  public 
act,  and  the  ancient  chronicler  writes  there  was 
"such  a  general  sighing,  groaning,  and  weeping 
as  the  like  has  not  been  seen  or  known  in  the 
memory  of  man." 

In  the  tomb  of  the  half-sisters,  the  children  of 
Henry  Eighth,  the  series  of  royal  monuments  is 
brought  to  an  end  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

When  the  search  was  made  for  the  grave  of 
James  First  the  excavations  laid  bare  the  wall 
at  the  east  end  of  Elizabeth's  monument,  and 
through  a  small  opening  the  Dean  of  the  Abbey, 
with  reverent  glance  and  bated  breath,  looked 
into  the  low,  cramped  black  vault  where  the  two 
queens  lie  alone  together,  the  Tudor  sisters, 
partners  of  the  same  throne  and  grave,  sleeping 
in  the  hope  of  resurrection.  There  was  no  dis- 
order or  decay  apparent,  except  that  the  wood 
had  fallen  over  the  head  of  Elizabeth's  coflin, 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH.  333 

and  the  wooden  case  had  crumbled  away  at  the 
sides  and  had  drawn  away  part  of  the  decaying 
lid.  No  coffin  plate  was  visible,  but  the  murky 
light  gave  to  view  a  fragment  of  the  lid,  slightly 
carved.  This  led  to  further  search,  and  the  en- 
tire inscription  was  discovered,  the  Tudor  badge, 
a  full  double  rose,  on  each  side  the  proud  initials 
"E.  R.,"  and  date.  The  coffin-case  was  of  inch 
elm,  but  the  ornamental  lid  was  of  fine  oak,  half- 
an-inch  thick,  laid  on  the  inch  elm  cover.  The 
whole  was  covered  with  red  silk  velvet,  "as 
though  the  bare  wood  had  not  been  thought  rich 
enough  without  the  velvet."  The  vault  was  im- 
mediately closed  again,  never,  in  all  probability, 
to  be  opened  till  the  great  day  for  which  all  other 
days  were  made  shall  rise  and  every  burial  stone 
be  rolled  away. 

We  did  not  take  a  guide  or  book,  preferring 
to  wander  about  the  immense  Abbey  where 
every  inch  of  space  is  storied  and  find  it  out  for 
ourselves.  We  guessed  at  what  was  not  appar- 
ent, and  smiled  over  some  mysterious  effigies  not 
easily  solved  by  pilgrims  unused  to  distant 
shrines.  The  tomb  of  Henry  Fifth  has  suffered 
strange  mutilations,  but  must  have  been  a  singu- 
lar thing  in  its  best  estate.  Upon  it,  his  statue, 
cut  from  the  solid  heart  of  an  English  oak,  was 
plated  with  silver  and  had  a  head  of  solid  silver. 


334  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

No  other  monument  in  the  Abbey  has  been  so 
despoiled. 

Two  teeth  of  gold  were  early  missing,  and 
some  years  later  the  whole  of  the  silver  head  was 
carried  off  by  robbers  who  broke  in  at  night.  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverly's  anger  was  roused  at  sight 
of  the  figure  of  one  of  our  English  kings,  with- 
out a  head,  which  had  been  stolen  away  several 
years  since.  ''Some  whig,  I  warrant  you.  You 
ought  to  lock  up  your  kings  better.  They'll  car- 
ry off  the  body,  too,  if  you  don't  take  care." 

High  above  Henry  hangs  his  great  emblaz- 
oned shield,  his  saddle,  and  his  helmet.  The 
shield  is  dinted,  bruised  and  rusty,  hacked  in 
many  a  bloody  battle;  the  helmet,  gashed  by 
heavy  saber-strokes,  is  the  "very  casque  that  did 
affright  the  air  at  Agincourt;"  the  same  bruised 
helmet  which  he  refused  to  have  borne  in  state 
before  him  on  his  return  to  London.  Is  there  a 
reader  who  does  not  instantly  recall  the  madcap 
Prince  Hal,  made  familiar  to  the  theater-loving 
by  the  grand  players  of  our  day?  Here  is  the 
cumbrous  antique  saddle,  and  all  armed  he 

"vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 

As  if  an  angel  dropped  down  from  the  clouds, 

To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus 

And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship." 

Who   does   not   remember  him    in   his    wild 


CATHARINE     DE    VALOIS.  335 

pranks  with  Falstaff ;  the  scene  in  the  Jerusalem 
Chamber  of  this  very  building  where  he  tried  on 
the  sleeping  king's  crown  in  the  spirit  we  can 
imagine  a  certain  prince  might  this  day  long  for 
that  self-same  crown?  Can  we  forget  his  re- 
pentance in  agony  of  tears  and  remorse  and  the 
never  dying  honors  of  his  later  life?  And  then 
his  rebuke  to  Falstaff: 

"I  know  thee  not,  old  man!    Fall  to  thy  prayers! 
How  ill  white  hairs  becomes  a  fool  and  jester!" 

A  gallant  prince  and  noble  king  he  loved  the 
Abbey;  and,  the  obstinate  enemy  of  heretics,  de- 
termined, had  he  conquered  France,  to  cut  down 
her  vines  with  a  view  to  suppressing  drunken- 
ness. A  wondrous  change  from  the  sack-drink- 
ing companions  of  Bardolph  at  Dame  Quick- 
ley's,  intent  only  on  laughing  away  the  roystering 
hours.  And  his  sweet  Kate,  his  Flower-de  Luce, 
the  bright,  bewitching  princess  with  her  broken 
English  and  liquid  French  words — how  sleeps 
she,  waiting  for  the  last  summons  to  rise?  Heue 
is  the  chronicle  of  Catharine  of  Valois. 

Catharine  De  Valois. 

The  remains  were  thrust  carelessly  into  the 
vacant  space  beneath  her  husband's  chantry.  The 
body,  the  tender  daughter  of  the  royal  line,  was 


336  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

laid  in  a  rude  coffin,  in  a  badly-appareled  state, 
open  to  view.  There  it  lay  for  many  years.  On 
the  destruction  of  that  chapel  by  her  grandson  it 
was  placed  beside  her  noble  husband,  and  *'so  it 
continued  to  be  seen,  the  bones  being  firmly 
united,  and  thinly  clothed  with  flesh,  like  scrap- 
ings of  fine  leather." 

What  strange  impiety  was  this  which  gave  the 
corpse  of  a  princess  to  the  eyes  of  the  gaping 
crowd  for  years  old  Westminster  walls  do  not 
record.  History  fixes  the  fact;  but  makes  no 
comment  on  the  disgraceful,  brutish  exposure. 

Anne  BoLEvisr. 

One  curious  old  custom,  very  dear  to  loyal 
hearts  in  Elizabeth's  time,  has  happily  fallen  into 
disuse.  It  was  called  "the  herse,"  a  platform 
draped  with  deepest  black,  on  which  rested  the 
waxen  effigy  of  the  dead.  It  remained  a  month 
in  the  Abbey,  near  the  grave;  in  the  case  of  kings 
for  a  much  longer  time,  after  being  carried  in  the 
funeral  procession  before  the  body  of  which  it 
was  the  image.  These  effigies  were  sacred  as 
holy  reHcs  in  the  monasteries  of  the  Middle 
Ages;  and  late  as  the  time  of  Nelson  were  in 
repute,  so  that  the  sightseers  might  be  beguiled 
from  Westminster  to  St,  Paul's. 


ANNE   BOLEYN.  337 

Here  is  a  tourist's  notice  of  the  ghostly  ap- 
paritions as  they  appeared  in  the  solemn  shades 
of  Westminster  in  1708: 

"And  so  we  went  on  to  see  the  ruins  of  majes- 
ty in  the  women  (sic:  waxen?)  figures  placed 
there  by  authority.  As  soon  as  w€  had  ascended 
half  a  score  of  steps  in  a  dirty  cobweb  hole,  and 
in  the  old  worm-eaten  presses,  whose  doors  flew 
open  at  our  approach,  here  stood  Edward,  the 
Third,  as  they  told  us,  which  was  a  broken 
piece  of  wax-work,  a  battered  head,  and  a  straw- 
stuffed  body  not  one  quarter  covered  with  rags; 
his  beautiful  Queen  stood  by,  not  better  in  re- 
pair; and  so  to  the  number  of  half  a  score  kings 
and  queens,  not  near  so  good  figures  as  the  King 
of  the  Beggars  make,  and  all  the  begging  crew 
would  be  ashamed  of  the  company.  Their  rear 
was  brought  up  with  good  Queen  Bess,  with  the 
remnant  of  an  old  dirty  ruff,  and  nothing  else  to 
cover  her." 

Think  of  such  a  ridiculous  row  of  puppets 
desecrating  the  aisles  of  to-day! 

Among  royal  coronations  none  have  been 
given  with  greater  splendor  than  Anne  Boleyn's. 
The  streets  were  freshly  strewn  with  gravel;  the 
buildings  hung  with  tapestries,  scarlet  and  crim- 
son and  rich  carpets  from  Persia  and  the  East. 

"It   is   no   easy  matter    to    picture   to   our- 


338  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

selves  the  blazing  trail  of  splendor  which,  in  such 
a  pageant,  must  have  drawn  along  the  streets — 
those  streets  which  now  we  know  so  black  and 
smoke-grimed,  themselves  then  radiant  with 
masses  of  color — gold  and  crimson  and  violet. 
*  *  *  In  an  open  space  behind  the  constable 
there  was  seen  a  white  chariot,  drawn  by  two 
palfreys  in  white  damask  which  swept  the 
ground,  a  golden  canopy  upborne  above  it  mak- 
ing music  with  silver  bells,  and  in  the  chariot  sat 
the  observed  of  all  observers,  the  beautiful  oc- 
casion of  all  this  glittering  homage.  *  *  There 
she  sat,  drest  in  white  tissue  robes,  her  fair  hair 
flowing  loose  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  tem- 
ples circled  with  a  light  coronet  of  gold  and  dia- 
monds, most  beautiful,  loveliest,  most  favored, 
perhaps,  as  she  seemed  at  that  hour,  of  all  Eng- 
land's daughters.  *  *  *  Did  any  twinge  of 
remorse,  any  pang  of  painful  recollection,  pierce 
at  that  moment  the  incense  of  glory  which  she 
was  inhaling?  Did  any  vision  flit  across  her 
of  a  sad  mourning  figure,  which  once  had  stood 
where  she  was  standing,  now  desolate,  neglected, 
sinking  into  the  darkening  twilight  of  a  life  cut 
short  by  sorrow?    Who  can  tell? 

"Three  short  years  have  yet  to  pass;  and  again, 
on  a  summer  morning,  Queen  Anne  Boleyn  will 
leave  the  Tower  of  London — not  radiant  then 


ANNE   BOLEYN.  339 

With  beauty  on  a  gay  errand  of  coronation,  but 
a  poor  wandering  ghost  on  a  sad,  tragic  errand, 
from  which  she  will  never  more  return,  passing 
away  out  of  an  earth  where  she  may  stay  no 
longer."* 

A  stone  in  the  courtyard  is  inscribed  with  her 
name  and  the  date  of  her  execution.  Light  and 
trifling  in  life,  she  exhibited  serene  fortitude  in 
death. 

The  most  thoughtless  person  cannot  stroll 
through  historic  places,  guarded  by  the  banner 
of  St.  George,  and  not  feel  the  world  is  growing 
better.  Can  we  think  of  the  coming  king,  albeit 
not  the  best  of  husbands,  chopping  ofif  the  tender 
Alexandra's  head  to  make  room  for  another 
wife;  or  the  ruling  sovereign  leaving  her  favor- 
ites to  languish  in  prison  for  a  breach  of  etiquette 
or  a  fancied  sHght?  The  years  since  Elizabeth 
stormed  and  Anne  Boleyn  suffered  death  for  her 
sweet  lord's  pleasure  are  but  as  one  day  in  the 
long  Chronicles  of  Kings.  The  statues  of  saints 
and  martyrs  are  a  testimonial  that  we  live  in  the 
best  age  of  the  world;  and  in  this  atmosphere  of 
deep  pervading  peace,  where  there  are  no  dreams 
save  the  dreams  of  the  passing  traveler,  history  is 
very  gentle  to  the  victims  of  envy,  bigotry  and 
hate. 

*Froude. 


340  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

We  are  tempted  to  think  that,  could  England's 
bride,  the  Virgin  Queen,  rise  again  among  the 
refinements,  engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  she  would  subdue  her 
temper  to  the  atmosphere  of  the  times.  The 
mildest  oath  would  be  unheard,  and  such  epi- 
thets as  "wench"  and  "knave"  would  not  be  ad- 
dressed to  high  born  courtiers  and  ladies  of 
gentle  blood. 

As  I  write,  the  newspapers  are  giving  descrip- 
tions of  a  portion  of  Westminster  where  the 
flooring  is  being  taken  up,  revealing  fine  pave- 
ment of  encaustic  tiles,  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, covering  the  entire  "Abbot's  House" — red, 
bufif,  yellow,  of  geometrical  designs;  and  now 
that  the  craze  for  tiles  has  possession  of  lovers 
of  art  and  aesthetics,  they  have  a  higher  value 
than  when  laid  there  four  hundred  years  ago. 

Strange  that  in  a  building  where  the  records 
are  so  carefully  kept  there  should  ever  be  mis- 
takes, confusion  of  any  kind,  or  that  anything  be 
lost  sight  of  in  the  dust  and  cobweb  of  passing 
years.  The  old  battle  against  oblivion  is  a  hard 
one;  and  though  the  fight  goes  bravely  on,  the 
steady  march  of  ages  is  pretty  sure  to  bewilder 
the  children  of  men,  and  dust  to  dust  at  last  blurs 
over  their  most  hallowed  inscriptions. 

The   latest   examinations   of   builders   prove 


ANNE   BOLEYN.  341 

Westminster  in  a  state  of  lamentable  neglect. 
In  some  parts  the  soft,  porous  stone  has  grad- 
Lially  loosened  and  crumbled,  till  walls  are  hol- 
lowed out  and  shaken;  and  it  is  even  asserted 
that  the  whole  structure  shows  signs  of  disinte- 
gration. At  odd  times,  in  the  different  centuries, 
immense  sums  have  been  spent  and  slow  and 
conscientious  labor  has  gone  into  the  work  of 
replacing  one  block  or  one  mullion  by  another, 
but  the  substitution  has  been  insufficient.  In- 
spectors complain  that  the  official  architect,  Sir 
Gilbert  Scott,  has  not  given  the  Abbey  the 
needed  attention.  He  failed  to  report  its  con- 
dition, and,  in  fact,  rarely  went  near  the  place  or 
showed  an  interest  in  it.  As  a  result  of  not  mak- 
ing repairs  in  time  the  estimate  now  is  that 
twenty-four  thousand  pgunds  are  the  least  sum 
required  for  an  effective  restoration  of  the  waste 
places.  And  every  traveler  comprehends  the 
danger  of  restorers,  the  vanity  of  man  leading 
him  to  inflict  damages  in  the  way  of  change 
greater  than  the  common  enemy  has  power  to 
bring  about. 

The  men  of  old  planned  and  built  as  men  have 
not  wrought  in  later  times,  and  the  Pyramid, 
which  was  a  marvel  of  antiquity  in  the  days  of 
Herodotus  (which,  by  Arab  tradition,  is  the  only 
thing   on    earth   that   bore   the  weight   of  the 


342  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Flood),  will  probably  last,  with  its  stupendous 
masonry  unaltered,  when  every  other  temple 
tower  and  tomb  on  the  globe  shall  have  mold- 
ered  into  ruin. 

But  this  is  a  digression,  as  our  friends,  the 
novelists,  say. 


The  Chair  of  State. 

The  best  view  of  the  interior  of  Westminster 
Abbey  is  from  the  great  western  door.  The 
whole  design  is  then  under  the  eye,  with  its  lofty 
roof,  beautifully  disposed  lights,  and  long  ar- 
cades of  columns.  On  the  arches  of  the  pillars 
are  galleries  of  double  columns,  fifteen  feet  v/ide, 
covering  the  side  aisles  and  lighted  by  a  middle 
range  of  windows,  over  which  there  is  an  upper 
range  of  larger  windows: 

"richly    dight 


Casting   a   dim    religious    light." 

The  monuments  in  the  nave  are  of  compara- 
tively recent  work,  many  are  dedicated  to  the  de- 
fenders who  fell  while  upholding  the  flag  which 
flies  wherever  wood  will  float. 

It  is  not  strange  that  seamen  are  proud  of  a 


THE  CHAIR  OF  STATE.  343 

country  so  proud  of  them,  and  that  the  battle  cry 
of  her  foremost  admiral  should  be  ''Victory  or 
Westminster  Abbey !"  But  he  who  looked  for- 
ward only  to  triumphs — Nelson — found  his 
grave  in  St.  Paul's.  I  do  not  undertsand  why,  or 
why  the  Duke  of  Wellington  should  lie  there, 
his  statue  above  him,  "like  a  warrior  taking  his 
rest,  with  his  martial  cloak  around  him,"  instead 
of  holding  a  place  in  this  sanctuary  of  famous 
Englishmen.  We  pause  before  a  bust  of  War- 
ren Hastings,  Governor  of  Bengal.  The  glitter- 
ing page  of  Macaulay  has  made  familiar  to  my 
reader  the  story  of  that  life,  more  varied  and 
wonderful  than  the  wildest  romance.  At  one 
time  denounced  by  the  greatest  orator  of  a  great 
age  as  the  common  enemy  and  oppressor  of  the 
human  race,  after  he  had  for  years  maintained 
the  dignity  and  splendor  of  an  Oriental  satrap; 
tried  before  one  generation,  accused  before  an- 
other, his  fate  is  a  bitter  comment  on  the  in- 
stability of  human  power  and  human  glory;  most 
of  all  of  human  friendship.  The  dust  of  the  il- 
lustrious accused  does  not  mingle  with  the  dust 
of  his  accusers  under  this  roof;  but  his  fame 
is  secure,  for  his  name  is  here.  Had  his  lot  been 
cast  in  North  America,  and  he  been  there  devoted 
to  his  king,  as  in  India,  possibly  England  might 
not  have  lost  her  colonies  in  the  New  World. 


344  WESTMINSTER  ABBEV. 

Many  things  were  strange  to  me  in  this  Pan- 
theon of  Britain,  where  each  loyal  Englishman 
covets  a  place;  but  the  strangest  sight  was  the 
Queen's  Chair,  used  only  on  Coronation  Days 
in  that  ceremonial  of  utmost  pomp  and  splendor. 

I  had  supposed  the  chair  of  state,  which  took 
part  in  the  most  splendid  pageant  of  the  proudest 
city  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  was  of  ivory  and 
precious  stones,  cloth  of  gold,  jeweled  and  daz- 
zling to  the  sight.  But  no;  as  the  ancestors  of 
the  Empress  of  India  sat,  so  sits  she.  This  old 
arm  chair  is  of  carved  oak,  almost  black,  very 
dirty  and  dilapidated.  Part  of  the  carven  back 
is  broken  off,  the  remainder  scribbled  over;  the 
velvet  covering,  if  velvet  it  was,  is  worn  down  to 
the  ragged  foundation.  The  arms  thereof  are 
covered  with  dirt,  as  if  greasy  fingers  had  been 
wiped  on  them.  Perhaps  they  are  regal  finger- 
prints, and  the  divinity  which  doth  hedge  a  king 
forbids  covering  them  with  the  work  of  plebeian 
hands.  On  its  own  merits  it  would  hardly  bring 
ten  dollars  in  a  furniture  shop,unless  some  crazy 
hunter  of  antiques  should  take  an  insane  liking 
to  the  four  badly  carved  lions  which  support  the 
heavy  seat.  The  historic  chair  holds  associations 
more  precious  than  gold,  than  much  fine  gold; 
phantoms  from  out  the  stillness  of  the  past  flit 
before  us  as  we  stand  beside  the  time-worn,  dusty 


THE  CHAIR  OF  STATE.  345 

relic.  Long  lines  of  kings  "come  like  shadows, 
so  depart;"  for  in  this  chair  every  English  sov- 
ereign from  Edward  First — second  founder  of 
the  Abbey,  who  lies  in  its  center  (1065) — to  the 
time  of  Victoria  (1837)  has  been  inaugurated 
and  enthroned. 

Edward  the  First  originally  intended  the  seat 
of  the  chair  should  be  of  bronze;  but  afterward 
had  it  adapted  to  the  Stone  of  Scone,  on  which 
the  Scottish  kings  were  crowned,  which  is  im- 
bedded in  the  Plantagenet  oak.  It  was  his  latest 
care  for  the  Abbey,  and  brings  to  the  place  a 
mythic  charm  with  its  many  legends  and  varied 
traditions.  They  veil  the  nakedness  and  shab- 
biness  of  the  antique  seat  with  such  grace  that  we 
begin  to  comprehend  why  it  is  allowed  to  re- 
main unaltered  in  the  alterations  of  many  cen- 
turies. 

The  tale  runs  that  this  consecrated  piece  of 
rock  was  the  stone  which  Jacob  "had  put  for  his 
pillow"  the  night  of  that  radiant  vision  at 
Bethel.  His  countrymen  carried  it  to  Egypt; 
for  it  was  a  sacred  pillar,  a  consecrated  altar  after 
the  patriarch  poured  oil  upon  it  in  the  morning. 
The  daughter  of  Pharaoh,  married  to  a  Greek, 
alarmed  at  the  fame  and  power  of  Moses,  fled 
with  it  to  Spain.  From  Brigantia  it  was  carried 
off  to  Ireland,  and  on  the  Holy  Hill  of  Tara's 

23 


346  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

chiefs  it  was  called  Lia  Fail  "the  Stone  of  Des- 
tiny," and  on  it  the  kings  of  Ireland  were 
crowned. 

From  Scotland,  the  shadowy  region  of  mists 
and  fogs,  the  chosen  home  of  legendary  lore, 
arose  the  founder  of  a  kingdom,  Fergus  by 
name.  He  seized  the  priceless  treasure,  and  bore 
it  across  the  sea  to  Dunstafifnage;  from  thence 
it  went  through  various  migrations  and  in  840 
was  laid  on  a  raised  plot  of  ground  at  Scone, 
"because  that  the  last  battle  with  the  Picts  was 
there  fought;"  and  from  this  period  its  history 
is  authentic  and  unbroken.  The  kings  of  Scot- 
land were  there  crowned  by  the  Earls  of  Fife. 

Geology,  which  proves  the  truth  or  falsity  of 
countless  sermons  hid  in  stones,  reports  this  a 
true  Scottish  sandstone,  such  as  forms  the  west 
coast  of  Scotland.  Its  quality  is  undoubted,  and 
it  has  the  appearance  of  having  been  once  part 
of  a  building.  Vainly  the  Scottish  kings  tried 
to  recover  the  Stone  of  Scone;  the  affection 
which  attaches  to  it  and  the  proud  memories  it 
stirs  forbade  the  removal  of  the  last  relic  of  Scot- 
land's kings.  The  Royal  Chair,  of  which  it  is 
part,  is  the  most  interesting  object  where  many 
are  hallowed,  and  its  very  disfigurements  add  to 
its  sanctity;  a  regal  seat  which  needs  no  adorn- 
ing but  its  own  history.     The  wild  dreams  of 


THE  CHAIR  OF   STATE.  347 

the  Duchess  of  Gloucester  hovered  about  this 
august  throne. 

"Methinks  I  sat  in  seat  of  majesty, 
In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 
And  in  that  chair  where  kings  and  queens  are  crowned." 
— Shakespeare,  Henry  VI. 

But  once  since  it  entered  the  Abbey  has  the 
Stone  of  Destiny  been  moved  out  of  its  place, 
a  day  more  important  in  England's  annals  than 
generations  of  time  coming  and  going  since 
then.  When  Cromwell  was  inaugurated  Lord 
Protector  in  Westminster  Hall,  to  give  the  pe- 
culiar pageant  some  flavor  of  the  right  of  royalty, 
the  Chair  of  Scotland  was  brought  out  of  West- 
minster Abbey  for  that  one  most  solemn  hour. 
Who  may  tell  what  dreams  of  glory,  towering 
high  as  the  heavens,  opened  in  vision  to  the  first 
dreamer  on  this  legendary  stone,  rose  upon 
Cromwell's  sight  as  he  sat,  usurper  of  the 
Queen's  Chair,  under  a  princely  canopy  of  state? 
The  hand  of  the  great  master  of  morals  and  hu- 
manity touches  it  in  Macbeth.  On  this  stone, 
about  the  year  1039,  ^^^  King  stood  to  receive 
the  anointing  oil  and  crown  of  Scotland.  It 
was  part  of  his  prophetic  revelation  on  the 
blasted  heath,  when  louder  than  loudest  thunder 
he  barkened  to  the  "All  hail,  Macbeth,  that 
shalt  be  king  hereafter!"     And  with   prompt 


348  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

alacrity  the  brainsick  usurper  hastened  to 
Scone,  "to  be  invested,"  after  the  gracious  Dun- 
can was  murdered. 

Speaking  of  Macbeth  brings  up  the  peerless 
actress  who  for  thirty  years  played  the  part  of 
his  relentless  queen,  and  never  failed  to  find,  in 
each  representation,  new  excellence  in  the  trag- 
edy. The  statue  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  wrought  in 
purest  marble,  stands  in  St.  Andrew's  Chapel, 
Westminster  Abbey;  a  little  above  life  size,  yet 
hardly  a  colossal  figure;  a  faithful  presentment 
of  the  dazzhng  woman  whose  charm  lasted  to 
three-score  years,  and  whose  high  presence  made 
every  woman  beside  her  appear  plain  and  com- 
mon-place. The  profile  is  absolutely  perfect;  but 
the  sight-seer  stands  too  near  the  heroic  work 
of  the  cunning  sculptor.  The  picture  in  the 
National  Gallery,  by  Gainsborough,  taken  in  the 
hat  with  streaming  plume  which  yet  bears  his 
name,  gives  a  softer  face,  of  exquisite  color  and 
mold;  and  the  'Tragic  Muse,"  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  is  indescribably  fine.  Such  a  face  in 
pagan  lands  might  create  a  siege  of  Troy  or 
battle  of  Actium.  A  quaint  old  writer  says  of  the 
Mary  Stuart  of  history  and  the  Lady  Macbeth 
of  Shakespeare : 

"We  know  that  the  former  had  a  delicate  ex- 
terior, auburn  hair  and  beaming  blue  eyes;  her 


THE  CHAIR  OF  STATE.  349 

tone  of  speaking  was  gentle  and  voice  sweet,  ex- 
cellently soft  and  low.  Mrs.  Siddons,  whose 
style  and  color  were  altogether  different,  became 
so  saturated  with  Lady  Macbeth  as  to  be  con- 
vinced she  must  have  been  a  blonde.  We  think 
that  Shakespeare  implies  and  justifies  this  deli- 
cate perception  and  turns  it  into  history.  Both 
the  Queens  of  Scotland  represented  the  kind  of 
blonde  women  who  are  fired  by  sunlight;  it 
crisps  the  golden  or  the  chestnut  hair,  becomes 
quicksilver  in  the  veins,  hits  every  brain-cell  with 
its  actinic  ray,  and  chases  over  the  yielding  hair 
in  ripples  like  a  blown  wheat  field." 

Campbell  ridicules  this  idea,  and  writes  of 
Lady  Macbeth : 

"She  is  a  splendid  picture  of  evil  *  *  * 
a  sort  of  sister  of  Milton's  Lucifer;  and,  like  him, 
we  surely  imagine  her  externally  majestic  and 
beautiful.  Mrs.  Siddon's  idea  of  her  having  been 
a  blonde  and  delicate  beauty  seems  to  me  a  pure 
caprice.  The  public  would  have  ill  exchanged 
such  a  representative  of  Lady  Macbeth  for  the 
dark  locks  and  eagle  eyes  of  Mrs.  Siddons." 

It  is  well  known  that  she  preferred  the  part  of 
Queen  Catherine — the  gentle,  forgiving  wife — 
to  the  character  by  which  her  name  is  perpetu- 
ated. Sweet  lady  and  great  artist — greatest 
among  a  family  represented  on  the  stage  for 


350  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

two  hundred  years — her  heart  was  not  that  of 
the  ambitious  schemer  of  undaunted  mettle,  urg- 
ing her  vacillating  lord  to  catch  the  nearest  way 
to  the  throne.  She  stands  in  Westminster  stately 
and  splendid,  a  fascination  in  her  lofty  bearing 
and  proportions,  not  lessened  by  the  delicacy  of 
the  little  hand  which  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia 
"will  not  sweeten." 

She  was  beautiful  at  every  age;  and  many  a 
player  will  act  well  his  part,  and  many  a  star  will 
rise  and  set  as  our  old  earth  swings  among  the 
constellations,  before  it  produces  another  such 
transcendent  genius. 

In  singular  contrast  with  this  immortality  in 
Westminster  is  the  fact  that  pleasure-loving 
France  denies  Christian  burial  to  actors,  except 
opera  singers.  When  the  all-gifted  Lecouvreur 
went  home  from  the  scene  of  her  triumphs,  to 
die  after  four  days  of  anguish  without  absolution, 
the  gates  of  every  recognized  burial  ground  in 
the  kingdom  were  closed  against  her  wasted 
body — the  poor  relics  of  a  gifted  and  bewitching 
woman  whom  all  that  was  distinguished  and 
splendid  in  the  society  of  her  native  land  had 
loved  to  look  upon.  At  dead  of  night  her  corpse 
was  carried  in  an  old  coach  a  little  way  out  of 
town,  just  beyond  the  city  limits,  to  a  spot  of 
bare  earth,  the  empty  suburb  of  gay  and  laugh- 


THE  CHAIR  OF  STATE.  351 

ing  Paris.  The  fiacre  was  followed  by  one 
friend,  two  street  porters,  and  a  squad  of  police- 
men. There  the  melancholy  grave  was  dug, 
sadder  than  funeral  rites  could  make  it;  the 
frail,  slender  form  was  covered  from  sight,  no 
turf  or  stone  to  mark  the  condemned  earth  where 
the  sleeper  of  twenty-eight  years  rested  from  her 
reckless  fever,  called  Hving. 

Gradually  the  city  grew  over  the  lost  and 
nameless  sepulcher  and  hid  it  forever.  Perhaps 
it  shocked  the  thousands  who  had  hung  dazed 
and  breathless  on  her  words  to  think  of  her  being 
taken  out  at  night  and  put  away  in  a  corner  of 
d  road  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  in  a  field  trod- 
den by  hoofs  of  cattle  instead  of  the  feet  of  men. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  charity  of  Protestant 
Wesminster  is  in  broad  contrast  with  the  after- 
death  scruples  of  infidel  Paris.  A  whole  race  of 
renowned  actors  and  actresses  lie  here,  and  the 
holiest  dust  beneath  the  floor  is  not  defiled. 
When  Garrick's  funeral  was  held,  the  crowd  was 
ennobled  with  the  finest  literary  men  of  that  day 
bewailing  the  stroke  of  death  ''which  eclipsed  the 
gayety  of  nations  and  impoverished  the  public 
stock  of  harmless  pleasures."  Old  Samuel  John- 
son was  bathed  in  tears;  and  soon  his  own  coffin 
was  placed  close  to  Garrick's  and  beside  that  of 
his  deadly  enemy,  Macpherson,  editor  of  "Os- 


353  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

sian."  No  sparring  or  backbiting  then  between 
the  ambitious  Hterary  rivals. 

Seest  thou  a  man  diligent  in  business?  He 
shall  stand  before  kings,  was  the  proverb  that 
came  to  mind  as  I  read  a  memorial  line  under  the 
colossal  statue  9f  James  Watt,  "Improver  of  the 
Steam  Engine;"  and  hard  by  lie  Telford  and 
Robert  Stephenson,  the  bridge  builders.  The 
window  erected  to  the  latter  commemorates,  in 
unique  fashion,  the  mechanics  of  the  world, 
from  the  Tower  of  Babel  down  to  railways,  and 
the  rich  light  falls  tenderly  on  their  names  as  on 
escutcheons  of  nobles  whose  haughty  ancestry 
warred  with  the  Roses.  White  Rose  and  Red 
Rose  are  at  one  in  this  calm  center,  round  which 
the  whirling  currents  of  London  life  are  rushing; 
and  artisans  raised  by  their  own  energy  from  ob- 
scurity are  not  least  in  the  mixed  multitude  of 
names  the  world  delights  to  honor. 

I  am  sure  all  persons  with  or  without  teeth  will 
approve  a  recognition  of  that  benefactor  of  the 
human  race,  the  inventor  of  chloroform. 

It  is  noticeable  that  no  such  deeds  were  thus 
recognized  by  the  earlier  generations  who  held 
the  keys  of  the  Abbey.  A  medallion  in  marble, 
not  ancient  enough  to  take  on  the  amber  tinge 
dear  to  the  British  heart  and  eye,  is  the  ship  of 


THE  CHAIR  OF  STATE.  353 

Sir  John  Franklin,  with  the  same  ice  around  her 
still;  and  beneath  it  are  these  lines: 

"O  ye  frost  and  cold,  O  ye  ice  and  snow, 
Bless  ye  the  Lord,  praise  him  and  magnify  Him  forever." 

A  wide,  catholic  spirit  is  that  which  offers  a 
mural  tablet  to  the  memory  of  the  Wesleys.  In 
the  marble  we  see  the  well-known  figure  of  John, 
preaching  on  his  father's  grave,  and  engraved 
below  are  the  words,  'The  workers  die,  but  the 
works  live  on,"  and  the  last  words  of  the  great 
reformer,  "Best  of  all,  God  is  with  us."  Strong 
testimonials  that  the  good  men  do  is  not  interred 
with  their  bones,  as  the  mocking  Antony  would 
fain  have  taught  the  Roman  populace. 

A  monument  attractive  by  its  singularity  is  a 
Negro  kneeling  beside  a  lion  and  a  lamb.  It 
commemorates  the  learning  and  labors  of  the 
earnest  abolitionist,  Granville  Sharp,  and  the  in- 
scription to  the  most  rigidly  orthodox  of  men 
was  the  work  of  the  Unitarian,  William  Smith. 
In  the  broad  tolerance  of  the  narrow  house  ap- 
pointed for  all  living  there  are  no  wrangles  or 
disputed  points,  no  questions  about  creeds  or 
dogmas,  nor  anything  but  charity  for  the  spirit 
passed  beyond  the  veil,  standing  before  a  Judge 
who  can  do  no  wrong. 


354  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Poets'  Corner. 

In  the  melancholy  which  the  lightest  of  heart 
must  feel  before  the  invisible  presences  peopling 
this  space,  we  passed  under  a  low  doorway  hard- 
ly two  feet  above  a  man's  height,  into  a  large 
hollow  cross.  Through  its  rich  windows  glim- 
mered a  subdued  light,  solemn  and  mystic  in  its 
lovely  coloring.  Stooping  to  pick  up  a  dropped 
handkerchief  I  read  under  my  feet,  in  fresh,  un- 
tarnished gilt  letters  the  name  of  Charles  Dick- 
ens. It  was  a  species  of  profanation  to  stand 
there;  but  to  reach  this  stone  we  had  crossed  a 
pavement  of  blue  marble,  about  fourteen  inches 
square,  with  these  four  magic  words : 

"O  rare  Ben  Jonson!" 

Another  step  would  be  on  the  grave  of  Ma- 
caulay;  above,  around,  beneath,  were  names 
whose  glory  fills  the  world.  I  was  in  the  Poets' 
Corner,  the  holiest  shrine  of  this  sanctuary. 

How  well  we  remember  the  funeral  of  Dick- 
ens. By  his  will  it  was  strictly  private.  One  soft 
summer  morning,  when  the  somber  shadows  of 
the  Abbey  fell  heavily,  a  little  train  of  mourners, 
representing  the  sorrowing  thousands  of  English 
speaking  people,  stood  beside  the  open  grave  of 
the  author  of  'The  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  the  least 


POETS'   CORNER.  355 

read  and  most  admirable  of  his  works;  the  one 
on  which  his  future  fame  will  rest.  The  grave 
had  been  dug  the  night  before  in  secret,  and  the 
organ  swelled  the  heavy  anthem  of  the  dead 
while  the  clergy  read  the  funeral  service.  But 
fourteen  mourners  were  present.  Myrtles  and 
evergreens,  lilies  and  roses  were  dropped  upon 
the  coffin  lid.  Many  days  flowers  were  laid  for 
remembrance  by  unknown  hands  on  the  fresh 
slab;  the  vast  space  of  the  soHtary  floor  was 
trodden  by  poor  figures  of  every-day  people,  who 
had  laughed  and  wept  over  the  well  thumbed 
pages  of  the  cheap  editions  of  ^Tickwick"  and 
''Dr.  Marigold."  They  were  friends  of  him  who 
had  pleaded  the  cause  of  suffering  humanity  be- 
fore Parliament  and  the  Queen;  before  the 
v/orld.  Among  the  rows  of  warriors  and  walks 
of  kings  none  have  been  more  missed  and 
mourned. 

We  sadly  looked  in  each  other's  faces  when 
the  news  came  ''Dickens  is  dead,"  and  our  first 
thought  was  "Edwin  Drood"  is  not  finished.  It 
was  offered  to  the  public  in  fragmentary  parts; 
and  one  ambitious  writer  thought  to  link  his 
name  with  that  of  the  greatest  story-teller  since 
Scott  by  a  weak  effort  to  fill  up  the  outline  and 
guess  the  probable  continuation  and  conclusion 
— a  towering  vanity  that  found  fit  end.    The  un- 


356  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

finished  window  of  Aladdin's  Palace  must  remain 
forever  unfinished.  While  I  stood  above  the 
grave  of  the  man  beloved  and  praised  through- 
out two  continents,  I  remembered  the  record  of 
his  early  life,  more  wretched  than  the  most 
wretched  of  the  young  heroes  of  his  own  novels. 
For  years  he  said  he  was  never  free  from  the 
sensation  of  hunger.  Could  that  miserable  boy, 
pasting  labels  on  blacking  bottles,  have  foreseen 
his  high  and  brilliant  career,  it  would  have  com- 
forted him  in  those  heavy  hours,  have  been  a 
little  sweet  among  so  much  bitter  to  know  he 
should  lie  at  last  under  these  arches,  hardly  less 
glorious  than  the  azure  overarching  all.  But  he 
did  not  work,  like  Milton, 

"As  ever  in  his  great  Taskmaster's  eye." 

The  shadow  which  dims  the  luster  of  his  name 
fell  on  it  by  his  own  fireside.  The  wife  of  his 
youth,  beside  him  twenty  years,  mother  of  many 
children,  that  is  the  shape  it  takes.  He  accused 
her;  but  she  died  and  made  no  sign.  Oh!  how 
much  better  to  have  veiled  her  faults  with  the 
soft  mantle  of  silence  and  patiently  waited  for  the 
long  divorce  of  death,  never  far  off  after  we  pass 
the  half-way  house.  When  the  departing  spirit 
reaches  the  bar  before  which  soon  or  late  we 


POETS'  CORNER.  357 

all  appear,  the  tenderest  lines  he  ever  wrote  may 
yet  thrill  his  memory : 

"Oh !  woman  God — beloved  in  old  Jerusalem ! 
The  best  among  us  need  deal  lightly  with  thy 
faults  if  only  for  the  punishment  thy  nature  will 
endure  in  bearing  heavy  evidence  against  us  in 
the  Day  of  Judgment." 

We  are  not  here  to  sit  in  judgment,  only  to 
learn  lessons  of  forbearance,  and  reconciliation, 
and  to  renew  our  remembrance  of  kinship  to  the 
great  family  of  man.  Leveled  by  death,  who  lays 
the  shepherd's  crook  beside  the  scepter,  they 
sleep,  the  beloved  dead,  under  the  floor,  type  of 
the  last  assemblage  when  we  shall  stand  on  equal 
level — small  and  great,  rich  and  poor,  bond  and 
free — and  each  give  account  for  himself. 

Under  an  altar  tomb  with  Gothic  canopy  rests 
Geofifrey  Chaucer,  father  of  English  poetry : 

"Of  English  bards  who  sung  the  sweetest  strains 
Old  Geoffrey  Chaucer  now  this  tomb  contains; 
For  his  death's  date  if,  reader,  thou  shouldst  call, 
Look  but  beneath,  and  it  will  tell  thee  all. 
25th  October,  1400." 

Originally  the  back  of  the  tomb  contained  a 
portrait  of  Chaucer.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
learn  when  it  disappeared.  Near  him,  first  to 
drop  from  the  singing  brotherhood  who  made 


358  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Elizabeth's  reign  a  dating  point  for  after  ages, 
lies  in  the  eternal  silence,  Edmund  Spenser.  I 
rest  my  paper  against  Dryden's  monument,  and 
copy  verbatim  the  inscription : 

''Here  lyes  (expecting  the  second  comminge 
of  our  Savior  Jesus  Christ)  the  body  of  Edmund 
Spenser,  the  Prince  of  Poets,  in  his  tyme,  whose 
divine  spiri-it  needs  noe  other  witness  than  the 
works  which  he  left  behinde  him.  He  was  borne 
in  London  in  the  yeare  1553,  and  died  in  the 
yeare  1598." 

As  a  curious  old  scribbler  has  said,  it  is  enough 
to  make  passengers'  feet  to  move  metrically  who 
go  over  the  place  where  so  much  poetical  dust  is 
interred.  The  funeral  of  the  author  of  the 
"Faerie  Queen"  has  often  been  described.  The 
expense  was  borne  by  the  Earl  of  Essex,  the  last 
favorite  of  the  old  Queen  who  could  look  down 
a  lion,  like  the  heroes  of  fable.  The  poets  in  a 
body  wept  beside  the  hearse,  lamenting  their 
chief.  That  was  one  of  the  grandest  funerals 
these  venerable  walls  have  ever  witnessed. 
Mournful  elegies  and  poems  and  the  pens  that 
wrote  them  were  dropped  on  the  body  in  the 
cofifin  after  it  was  lowered  to  the  dust  toward 
which  it  was  drawn  by  such  mysterious  kinship. 
What  a  sepulcher  is  that  in  which  Shakespeare's 
pen  and  song  may  have  moldered  away  beside 


POETS'  CORNER.  359 

those  of  Beaumont,  Fletcher  and  Jonson !  Think 
of  the  gallant  gentlemen  in  the  elegant  and  pic- 
turesque dress  of  the  period,  velvet  and  royal 
purple,  slashed  with  white,  nodding  plumes  and 
flashing  swords,  exquisite  lace  and  jeweled 
badges  of  honor,  and  the  high  presence  of  church 
dignitaries  and  courtiers  used  to  command! 
There  has  been  no  grander  funeral  since  the 
prophet  and  seer  of  Israel  went  up  to  die  on 
Nebo's  height,  and  the  mighty  hand  which  had 
led  him  in  the  wilderness  journey  of  forty  years 
buried  him  there. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  the  names  of  Burns  and 
Byron;  nor  could  I  discover  any  memorial  of  the 
author  of  the  ''Ancient  Mariner."  Their  burial 
places  are  made  for  special  pilgrimage,  and  we 
must  not  be  surprised  that  the  doors  of  this  far- 
reaching  cemetery  were  closed  against  the 
author  of  "Childe  Harold."  Even  his  statue  by 
Thorwaldsen  was  refused  admission;  but  his 
name  is  eternally  sounding  in  the  songs  of  the 
Storied  Sea,  "o'er  the  glad  waters"  which  he 
loved  well,  while  hating  the  land  of  his  birth. 

Many  graves  have  been  opened  and  closed 
here,  as  public  opinion  has  changed  from  gener- 
ation to  generation;  and  perhaps  the  beautiful 
statue  of  the  most  gifted  and  most  reckless  of 
men  may,  in  another  decade,  take  place  beside 


36o  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

the  Bob  Southey  who  writhed  under  his  blister- 
ing wit. 

I  delight  in  the  old  poets  when  they  are  de- 
lightful, but  cannot  value  them  as  certain  con- 
noisseurs value  cracked  ceramics,  merely  because 
they  are  old.  If  my  aesthetic  reader  does,  then 
he  may  be  pleased  with  the  following,  inscribed 
on  a  marble  sarcophagus  supported  by  the  muses 
of  history  and  poetry : 

"Nobles  and  heralds  by  your  leave, 

Here  lies  what  once  was  Matthew  Prior, 
The  son  of  Adam  and  of  Eve. 

Can  Bourbon  or  Nassau  claim  higher?" 

Here  is  a  bust  of  Milton,  ''the  regicide,"  whose 
name  was  once  thought  a  pollution  to  these 
walls.  Beneath  the  delicate  work  perpetuating 
the  features  without  blemish  or  defect,  is  a  lyre 
encircled  by  a  serpent  holding  an  apple;  and 
Macaulay's  gravestone  is  hard  by — the  orator, 
poet  and  statesman,  who  "ran  through  each 
mood  of  the  lyre,  and  was  master  of  all." 

I  regret  not  having  copied  the  comprehensive 
epitaph  of  Lord  Lytton,  or,  as  he  is  best  known 
in  America,  Bulwer.  What  days  and  nights  of 
pleasure  we  owe  to  his  vari-colored  creations — 
history,  poetry,  romance,  the  perfectly  embodied 
Richelieu,  love  itself  on  the  stage,  and  the  magic 
mirror  held  up  before  ancient  Pompeii.    What  a 


POETS'  CORNER.  361 

range  of  subjects!  Stand  before  a  shelf  filled 
with  his  volumes  and  remember  that  besides 
these  works  completed,  he  was  a  member  of 
Parliament,  in  good  standing  among  his  peers, 
and  always  a  man  of  fashion  and  society.  What- 
ever he  did  appeared  his  best;  and  how  gratify- 
ing to  his  lovers  to  watch  the  chastening  of  his 
imaginings  as  the  years  changed  the  author  of 
"Pelham"  to  the  better  man  of  'The  Caxtons." 

Through  the  long  drawn  aisle  and  fretted 
vault  the  heavy  organ  swell  thundered  in  our 
ears.  I  think  Gray's  Elegy  must  have  been  in- 
spired by  these  strains.  Its  rich  melody  will  out- 
last the  marble  bust  of  its  author.  It  was  Dick- 
ens who  said  no  man  ever  went  down  to  posterity 
with  so  small  a  volume  under  his  arm  as  Thomas 
Gray. 

Last,  though  always  first,  I  name  the  poet  who 
stands  alone,  without  equal  or  second — the  glory 
of  the  human  race,  the  foremost  man  of  all  this 
world — 

William  Shakespeare,  died  16 16. 

The  full  length  statue  represents  him  leaning 
on  a  pillar  whereon  rests  a  scroll  with  the  familiar 
lines  from  "The  Tempest :" 

"The  cloud  capped  towers,"  etc.,  etc. 
But  for  the  warning  over  his  grave  at  Strat- 

24 


362  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

ford,  his  ashes  would  have  been  removed  to  this 
spot  long  ago — the  poet  of  all  time  who  built  his 
own  monument,  greater  than  mausoleum  of  king 
or  prince,  or  starward-pointing  pyramid. 

Why  do  we  linger  about  the  Poets'  Corner? 
Because  we  have  talked  with  them  as  friend  with 
friend.  They  have  shortened  the  heavy  hours  of 
sickness  and  cheered  the  dull  days  of  ennui  and  of 
care.  They  have  been  like  old  familiar  faces 
under  the  evening  lamp,  and  their  hymning  has 
been  sweeter  to  us  than  the  blue-bird  telling  of 
coming  spring.  Blessings  be  with  them  and 
eternal  praise !  Walter  Scott's  name  is  not  here. 
Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  the  genius  of  the  best 
beloved  of  the  harpers  should  hover  about  the 
scenes  of  his  minstrelsy,  that  we  should  have  him 
only  in  heart  and  mind  in  the  lone  magnificence 
of  Dryburg  Abbey.  The  pride  of  all  Scotsmen, 
every  stony  hill  is  his  monument,  and  every 
glassy  lake  beyond  the  Tweed  mirrors  his  scenes 
in  the  waters  he  loved  so  long  and  loyally. 

My  reader  will  remember  the  pleasure  with 
which  he  read  that  a  bust  of  Longfellow  was  to 
be  placed  in  "Poets'  Corner."  The  impressive 
ceremony  was  held  at  midday,  on  Saturday, 
March  2,  1884.  It  is  the  work  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Brock,  A.  R.  A.,  and  was  executed  by  the  de- 
sire of  some  five  hundred  admirers  of  the  Amer- 


POETS'  CORNER.  363 

ican  poet.  It  stands  on  a  bracket  near  the  tomb 
of  Chaucer,  and  between  the  memorials  to  Cow- 
ley and  Dryden. 

Before  the  ceremony  took  place,  a  meeting  of 
the  subscribers  was  held  in  the  Jerusalem  Cham- 
ber. In  the  absence  of  Dean  Bradley,  owing  to 
a  death  in  his  family,  the  Sub-Dean,  Canon 
Protheroe,  was  called  to  the  chair. 

Mr.  Bennoch  having  formally  announced  the 
order  of  proceeding,  Dr.  Bennett  made  a  brief 
statement,  and  called  upon  Earl  Granville  to  ask 
the  Dean's  acceptance  of  the  bust. 

Earl  Granville  then  said:  "Mr.  Sub-Dean, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  *  *  *  j  ^mi  afraid  I 
cannot  fulfil  the  promise  made  for  me  of  making 
a  speech  on  this  occasion.  Not  that  there  are 
wanting  materials  for  a  speech;  there  are  ma- 
terials of  the  richest  description.  Thereoare,  first 
of  all,  the  high  character,  the  refinement,  and  the 
personal  charm  of  the  late  illustrious  poet, — if 
I  may  say  so  in  the  presence  of  those  so  near 
and  so  dear  to  him.  There  are  also  the  charac- 
teristics of  those  works  which  have  secured  for 
him  not  a  greater  popularity  in  the  United  States 
themselves  than  in  this  island  and  in  all  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking dependencies  of  the  British  Em- 
pire. There  are  besides  very  large  views  with 
regard  to  the  literature  which  is  common  to  both 


364  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

the  United  States  and  ourselves,  and  with  regard 
to  the  separate  branches  of  Hterature  which  have 
sprung  up  in  each  country,  and  which  act  and 
react  with  so  much  advantage  one  upon  another; 
and  there  are,  above  all,  those  relations  of  a 
moral  and  intellectual  character  which  become 
bonds  stronger  and  greater  every  day  between 
the  intellectual  and  cultivated  classes  of  these 
two  great  countries.  I  am  happy  to  say  that 
with  such  materials  there  are  persons  here  in- 
finitely more  fitted  to  deal  than  I  could  have 
been  even  if  I  had  had  time  to  bestow  upon  the 
thought  and  the  labor  necessary  to  condense  into 
the  limits  of  a  speech  some  of  the  considerations 
I  have  mentioned.  I  am  glad  that  among  those 
present  there  is  one  who  is  not  only  the  official 
representative  of  the  United  States,  but  who 
speaks  with  more  authority  than  any  one  with  re- 
gard to  the  literature  and  intellectual  condition 
of  that  country.  I  cannot  but  say  how  glad  I 
am  that  I  have  been  present  at  two  of  the  meet- 
ings held  to  inaugurate  this  work,  and  I  am  de- 
lighted to  be  present  here  to  take  part  in  the 
closing  ceremony.  With  the  greatest  pleasure 
I  make  the  offer  of  this  memorial  to  the  Sub- 
Dean;  and  from  the  great  kindness  we  have  re- 
ceived already  from  the  authorities  of  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  received  in 


POETS'  CORNER.  3^5 

the  same  spirit.  I  beg  to  offer  to  you,  Mr.  Sub- 
Dean,  the  bust  which  has  been  subscribed  for.'"* 
The  American  Minister,  Mr.  Lowell,  then  said : 
"Mr.  Sub-Dean,  my  lord,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
I  think  I  may  take  upon  myself  the  responsi- 
bility, in  the  name  of  the  daughters  of  my  beloved 
friend,  to  express  their  gratitude  to  Lord  Gran- 
ville for  having  found  time,  amid  the  continuous 
and  arduous  calls  of  his  duty,  to  be  present  here 
this  morning.  Having  occasion  to  speak  in  this 
place  some  two  years  ago,  I  remember  that  I 
then  expressed  the  hope  that  some  day  or  other 
the  Abbey  of  Westminster  would  become  the 
Valhalla  of  the  whole  English-speaking  race.  I 
little  expected  then  that  a  beginning  would  be 
made  so  soon, — a  beginning  at  once  painful  and 
gratifying  in  the  highest  degree  to  myself, — 
with  the  bust  of  my  friend.  Though  there  be  no 
Academy  in  England  which  corresponds  to  that 
of  France,  yet  admission  to  Westminster  Abbey 
forms  a  sort  of  posthumous  test  of  literary  em- 
inence perhaps  as  effectual.  Every  one  of  us 
has  his  own  private  Valhalla,  and  it  is  not  apt 
to  be  populous.  But  the  conditions  of  admis- 
sion to  the  Abbey  are  very  different.  We  ought 
no  longer  to  ask  why  is  so-and-so  here,  and  we 
ought  always  to  be  able  to  answer  the  question 
why  such  a  one  is  not  here.     I  think  that  on  this 


366  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

occasion  I  should  express  the  united  feeling  of 
the  whole  English-speaking  race  in  confirming 
the  choice  which  has  been  made, — the  choice  of 
one  whose  name  is  dear  to  them  all,  who  has  in- 
spired their  lives  and  consoled  their  hearts,  and 
who  has  been  admitted  to  the  fireside  of  all  of 
them  as  a  familiar  friend.  Nearly  forty  years 
ago  I  had  occasion,  in  speaking  of  Mr.  Long- 
fellow, to  suggest  an  analogy  between  him  and 
the  English  poet  Gray;  and  I  have  never  since 
seen  any  reason  to  modify  or  change  that  opin- 
ion. There  are  certain  very  marked  analogies 
between  them,  I  think.  In  the  first  place,  there 
is  the  same  love  of  a  certain  subdued  splendor, 
not  inconsistent  with  transparency  of  diction; 
there  is  the  same  power  of  absorbing  and  assim- 
ilating the  beauties  of  other  literature  without 
loss  of  originality;  and  above  all  there  is  that 
genius,  that  sympathy  with  universal  sentiments 
and  the  power  of  expressing  them  so  that  they 
come  home  to  everybody,  both  high  and  low, 
which  characterize  both  poets.  There  is  some- 
thing also  in  that  simplicity, — simplicity  in  itself 
being  a  distinction.  But  in  style,  simplicity  and 
distinction  must  be  combined  in  order  to  their 
proper  effect;  and  the  only  warrant  perhaps  of 
permanence  in  literature  is  this  distinction  in 
style.     It  is  something  quite  indefinable;    it  is 


POETS'  CORNER.  3^7 

something  like  the  distinction  of  good-breeding, 
characterized^  perhaps  more  by  the  absence  of 
certain  negative  quahties  than  by  the  presence  of 
certain  positive  ones.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
distinction  of  style  is  eminently  found  in  the  poet 
whom  we  are  met  here  in  some  sense  to  celebrate 
to-day.  This  is  not  the  place,  of  course,  for 
criticism;  still  less  is  it  the  place  for  eulogy,  for 
eulogy  is  but  too  often  disguised  apology.  But 
I  have  been  struck  particularly — if  I  may  bring 
forward  one  instance — with  some  of  my  late 
triend's  sonnets,  which  seem  to  me  to  be  some  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  we  have  in  the 
language.  His  mind  always  moved  straight  to- 
ward its  object,  and  was  always  permeated  with 
the  emotion  that  gave  it  frankness  and  sincerity, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  ample  expression. 
It  seems  that  I  should  add  a  few  words^ — in  fact 
I  cannot  refrain  from  adding  a  few  words — with 
regard  to  the  personal  character  of  a  man  whom 
I  knew  for  more  than  forty  years,  and  whose 
friend  I  was  honored  to  call  myself  for  thirty 
years.  Never  was  a  private  character  more  an- 
swerable to  public  performance  than  that  of 
Longfellow.  Never  have  I  known  a  more  beau- 
tiful character.  I  was  familiar  with  it  daily, — 
with  the  constant  charity  of  his  hand  and  of  his 
mind.    His  nature  was  consecrated  ground,  into 


368  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

which  no  unclean  spirit  could  ever  enter.  I  feel 
entirely  how  inadequate  anything  that  I  can  say 
is  to  the  measure  and  proportion  of  an  occasion 
like  this.  But  I  think  I  am  authorized  to  ac- 
cept, in  the  name  of  the  people  of  America,  this 
tribute  to  not  the  least  distinguished  of  her  sons, 
to  a  man  who,  in  every  way,  both  in  public  and  in 
private,  did  honor  to  the  country  that  gave  him 
birth.  I  cannot  add  anything  more  to  what  was 
so  well  said  in  a  few  words  by  Lord  Granville, 
for  I  do  not  think  that  these  occasions  are  pre- 
cisely the  times  for  set  discourses,  but  rather  for 
a  few  words  of  feeling,  of  gratitude,  and  of  ap- 
preciation." 

The  Sub-Dean,  in  accepting  the  bust,  re- 
marked that  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel,  in  do- 
ing so,  that  they  were  accepting  a  very  great 
honor  to  the  country.  He  could  conceive  that  if 
the  great  poet  were  allowed  to  look  down  on  the 
transactions,  of  that  day  he  would  not  think  it 
unsatisfactory  that  his  memorial  had  been  placed 
in  that  great  Abbey  among  those  of  his  brothers 
in  poetry. 

The  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  moved  a 
vote  of  thanks  to  the  honorary  secretary  and  the 
honorary  treasurer,  and  said  he  thought  he  had 
been  selected  for  the  duty  because  he  had  spent 
two  or  three  years  of  his  life  in  the  United  States, 


POETS'  CORNER.  3^9 

and  a  still  longer  time  in  some  of  the  British 
colonies.  It  gave  him  the  greater  pleasure  to  do 
this,  having  known  Mr.  Longfellow  in  America, 
and  having  from  boyhood  enjoyed  his  poetry, 
which  was  quite  as  much  appreciated  in  England 
and  her  dependencies  as  in  America.  Wherever 
he  had  been  in  America,  and  wherever  he  had 
met  Americans  he  had  found  there  was  one  place 
at  least  which  they  looked  upon  as  being  as 
much  theirs  as  it  was  England's, — that  place 
was  the  Abbey  Church  of  Westminster.  It 
seemed,  therefore,  to  him  that  the  present  occa- 
sion was  an  excellent  beginning  of  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  Abbey  as  what  it  had  been  called, — 
the  Valhalla  of  the  English-speaking  people.  He 
trusted  this  beginning  would  not  be  the  end  of  its 
application  in  this  respect. 

The  company  then  proceeded  to  Poets'  Cor- 
ner, where,  taking  his  stand  in  front  of  the  cov- 
ered bust,  the  Sub-Dean  said : 

"I  feel  to-day  that  a  double  solemnity 
attaches  to  this  occasion  which  calls  us  to- 
gether. There  is  first  the  familiar  fact  that 
to-day  we  are  adding  another  name  to  the 
great  roll  of  illustrious  men  whom  we  commem- 
orate within  these  walls,  that  we  are  adding 
something  to  that  rich  heritage  which  we  have 
received  of  national  glory  from  our  ancestors,  and 


370  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

which  we  feel  bound  to  hand  over  to  our  suc- 
cessors, not  only  unimpaired,  but  even  increased. 
There  is  then  the  novel  and  peculiar  fact  which 
attaches  to  the  erection  of  a  monument  here  to 
the  memory  of  Henry  Longfellow.  In  some 
sense,  poets — great  poets  like  him — may  be  said 
to  be  natives  of  all  lands;  but  never  before  have 
the  great  men  of  other  countries,  however  bril- 
liant and  widCvSpread  their  fame,  been  admitted 
to  a  place  in  Westminster  Abbey.  A  century 
ago  America  was  just  commencing  her  perilous 
path  of  independence  and  self-government.  Who 
then  could  have  ventured  to  predict  that  within 
the  short  space  of  one  hundred  years  we  in  Eng- 
land should  be  found  to  honor  an  American  as 
much  as  we  could  do  so  by  giving  his  monument 
a  place  within  the  sacred  shrine  which  holds  the 
memories  of  our  most  illustrious  sons?  Is  there 
not  in  this  a  very  significant  fact;  is  it  not  an 
emphatic  proof  of  the  oneness  which  belongs  to 
our  common  race,  and  of  the  community  of  our 
national  glories?  May  I  not  add,  is  it  not  a 
pledge  that  we  give  to  each  other  that  nothing 
can  long  and  permanently  sever  nations  which 
are  bound  together  by  the  eternal  ties  of  lan- 
guage, race,  religion,  and  common  feeling?" 

The  reverend  gentleman  then  removed  the 
covering  from  the  bust,  and  the  ceremony  ended. 


t'OETS'   CORNER.  371 

One  of  the  strangest  scenes  ever  enacted  in 
Westminster  was  in  the  summer  of  1885.  One 
Sunday  morning  a  mob  from  the  street  crowded 
into  the  Chapel  and  took  possession  of  the  seats; 
some  leaned  against  the  bases  of  statues  while 
others  stood  in  uneasy  attitudes  awaiting  the 
time  of  morning  service.  In  their  mien  was  no 
reverence  of  folded  hands  or  downcast  eyes,  no 
faces  solemnized  for  prayer.  Dark  glances  filled 
the  soft  gloom,  whispers  hinting  mys,terious  se- 
crets answered-  by  nods  and  hoarse  murmurs. 
They  were  in  working  clothes,  laboring  men 
iron-bound  by  Fate  under  the  name  of  Capital. 
Representatives  of  the  modern  industrial  system 
with  its  underflow  of  bitter  feeling  breaking  into 
occasional  storms  to  which  we  give  the  name  of 
strikes. 

As  the  hour  passed  the  minister  tried  to  touch 
the  strangers  with  kind  speech  and  pacific  words. 
"We  don't  want  preaching,  we  want  work.  We 
want  bread."  were  the  tumultuous  responses 
which  saluted  him,  and  the  hungry  men  would 
not  allow  the  service  to  proceed.  It  was  a  signifi- 
cant sign  of  the  times;  the  upheaval  of  seething 
elements  about  us  ready  for  destruction;  for  not 
lightly  do  Englishmen  enter  a  holy  place  with  de- 
fiant gesture  and  profane  speech. 

It  is  pleasant  to  know  the  shilling  at  the  door 


Z72,  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

of  the  Abbey  is  no  longer  demanded.  It  always 
grated  on  my  feelings  to  pay  for  entering  the  old 
cathedral.  The  late  Dean  Stanley,  who  was  de- 
voted to  his  work  and  the  place  of  it,  left  the  sum 
of  three  thousand  pounds  in  trust  to  the  Dean 
and  Chapter  for  establishing  a  fund  for  the  pur- 
pose of  remunerating  the  guides  who  conduct 
strangers  over  the  Abbey,  with  the  sole  purpose 
of  abolishing  and  putting  an  end  to  the  payment 
of  fees  made  to  such  guides.  In  case  Westmin- 
ster Abbey  shall  cease  to  belong  to  the  National 
Church,  as  now  by  law  established  in  England, 
"which,  however,"  the  late  Dean  adds,  "I  think  is 
in  the  highest  degree  improbable,"  the  fund  thus 
set  aside  is  to  go  to  the  Westminster  Hospital. 

The  funeral  of  the  beloved  and  loving  Dean 
was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  that  ever  took 
place  in  this  holy  shrine  for  pilgrims  who  have 
ceased  their  wanderings  and  have  entered  into 
their  rest.  Says  one  of  his  friends :  Many  pro- 
cessions have  been  impressive;  but  the  scene  at 
Dean  Stanley's  was  unique.  It  was  the  most 
representative  assembly  ever  known;  and  there 
were  some  grotesque  points  about  it.  The 
names  of  Cardinals  Newman  and  Manning  were 
called;  but  they  had  not  intimated  they  would 
be  present.  The  newspapers  announced  the  fun- 
eral as  one  of  the  fashionable  entertainments  of 


POETS'  CORNER.  373 

the  week,  a  forthcoming  event  of  peculiar  interest 
to  the  London  world.  The  Prince  of  Wales  at- 
tended, and  left  at  once  for  Goodwood,  and  vari- 
ous members  of  the  House  of  Commons  slipped 
out  before  the  sad  service  was  concluded.  The 
splendor  of  the  scene  was  overwhelming.  The 
majestic  building,  the  solemn  gathering,  the 
tranquil  and  beautiful  service,  familiar  yet  for- 
ever new,  made  a  fit  conclusion  to  a  career  al- 
most the  very  crown  of  intellectual  success,  of 
a  life  fortunate  and  faultless,  a  life  linked  to  many 
lives,  from  the  Queen  on  the  throne  to  the  poor 
patient  in  the  hospital.  Let  me  conclude  this 
weak  tribute  to  the  Dean  who  loved  Westmin- 
ster with  a  reverent  and  ceaseless  admiration  by 
quoting  his  own  words  regarding  it.  'Tt  is  more 
and  more  a  witness  to  that  one  Sovereign  Good, 
to  that  one  Supreme  Truth — a  shadow  of  a  great 
rock  in  a  weary  land,  a  haven  of  rest  in  this  tu- 
multuous world,  a  breakwater  for  the  waves  upon 
waves  of  human  hearts  and  souls  which  beat  un- 
ceasingly around  its  island  shores." 

Sunday,  September  25,  188 1,  there  was  a 
wail  of  mourning  such  as  rarely  goes  up  from 
earth  to  Heaven.  The  man  of  the  people,  from 
the  people,  our  king  of  men,  lay  dead.  If  Love 
and  Faith  could  conquer  death  he  had  been 
saved.    Through  eighty  days  and  nights,  while 


374  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

like  a  shattered  column  he  lay,  the  spirit  of  prayer 
brooded  the  world,  almost  a  visible  presence. 
It  stretched  from  sea  to  sea  across  the  Conti- 
nents, unto  the  ends  of  the  earth,  to  hoary  Egypt, 
beyond  the  mystic  cities  of  Africa,  and  even  into 
antique  India. 

His  lofty  presence  drew  us  to  him  in  life;  his 
gallant  struggle  and  heroic  agony  endeared  him 
in  death,  and  we  refused  to  be  comforted.  In 
the  pleasant  afternoon  of  that  Sunday  there  were 
extraordinary  services  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
The  crowd  began  to  gather  early — a  crowd  of 
mourners  mostly  in  black — till  the  immense 
space  was  thronged.  The  body  was  not  there; 
but  we  had  in  mind  and  eye  the  towering  person, 
and  beaming  smile  of  the  dead  President.  The 
anthem  written  for  the  funeral  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  introducing  the  magnificent  Dead 
March  in  Saul,  really  a  recitative  for  one  bass 
voice,  was  given,  and  the  vast  assemblage  bowed 
as  with  one  impulse  under  the  rolling  waves  of 
sound. 

With  deep  emotion  Canon  Duckworth  read 
from  the  thirty-ninth  psalm,  "O  spare  me  that  I 
may  recover  my  strength  before  I  go  hence,  and 
be  no  more  seen.'*  The  Dean  said :  "Can  we 
forget,  to-day,  that  convalescence  (for  such  it 
seemed  to  be)  on  which  millions  of  hearts  in  the 


POETS'  CORNER.  375 

new  world  and  in  the  old  have  so  long  been  set 
with  a  yearning  devotion?  From  how  many  lips 
a  fervent  prayer  has  gone  up  day  by  day,  to  Him 
in  whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  life  and  death, 
to  spare  him,  that  he  might  recover  his  strength 
before  he  goes  hence  and  is  no  more  seen? 
Morning  and  evening  in  this  venerable  Abbey, 
round  which,  as  almost  the  home  of  the  race  and 
the  shrine  of  its  grandest  memories,  the  thoughts 
of  the  Western  Republic  twine  as  lovingly  as  our 
own,  and  in  which,  within  recent  times,  a  rest- 
ing-place has  been  found  for  two  of  its  noblest 
citizens,  we  have  offered  our  public  petitions  for 
a  life  so  dear  to  our  great  kindred  and  so  pre- 
cious to  the  world.  Never,  perhaps,  has  the  heart 
of  England  thrilled  with  a  deeper  sympathy. 
From  the  hour  when  the  dastardly  shot  was  fired 
one  interest  has  been  paramount.  Throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  one  interest 
has  displaced  every  other.  So  eagerly  did  we 
wait  for  every  telegram,  so  nervously  have  we 
scanned  every  message  of  hope  or  fear,  that 
when  the  struggle  ended  and  all  was  over,  the 
news  fell  upon  every  English  household,  from 
that  of  the  monarch  to  that  of  her  humblest  sub- 
ject, with  the  shock  of  a  personal  bereavement." 
As  the  eloquent  Dean  proceeded,  tears  fell  like 
rain,  and  every  American  present  felt  a  fresh 


\ 


376  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Strengthening  of  the  bond  which  binds  all  En- 
glish-speaking people. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  sermon,  in  harmoni- 
ous contrast  followed  a  chorus,  unspeakably 
beautiful;  and  so  in  Westminster  Abbey  we  held 
the  funeral  service  of  our  chief,  James  A.  Gar- 
field. His  body  is  buried  in  peace  and  his  name 
liveth  forevermore. 


XVI. 

THE  CHAIN  OF  THE  LAST  SLAVE  OF 
MARYLAND. 

It  was  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  1864.  War- 
worn soldiers  lay  along  the  guns  in  forts  and 
trenches;  warm  life  blood  watered  the  wilderness 
and  reddened  the  sod  of  green  fields;  and  in 
hospital,  camp,  and  wayside  our  boys  were  dying 
by  hundreds.  Skeleton  regiments  marched 
slowly  home  for  recruit  and  reorganization. 
They  returned  in  piteous  rags.  Homesick  eyes 
were  watching  in  the  land  from  which  sleep  ap- 
peared to  have  departed — watching  for  the  first 
glimmer  of  light  in  the  East;  eager  ears  were 
listening  for  the  coming  of  feet,  beautiful  upon 
the  mountains,  that  should  bring  good  tidings 
that  publish  peace.  Through  the  darkness  round 
about  us,  the  Dead  March  went  wailing  for  the 
burial  of  the  brave. 

President  Lincoln  had  issued  the  Emancipa- 
tion Proclamation.  A  year  and  more  the  people 
clamored  for  this  measure;  it  w^as  written  early 
as  the  June  previous,  but  he  thought  the  time 
s  377 


^ 


2,7^     THE   CHAIN  OF  THE   LAST  SLAVE. 

not  ripe  for  its  publication.  We  should  wait  till 
some  signal  advantage  in  the  field  was  gained; 
we  had  met  so  many  reverses,  the  enemy  might 
consider  the  act  a  cry  of  despair  prompted  by 
desperation.  The  long-hoped-for  victory  was  at 
last  won  in  the  battle  of  Antietam.  And  so,  New 
Year's  Day,  1863, — the  happiest  that  ever  rose 
on  the  colored  race  in  America, — it  was  pro- 
claimed through  the  press,  and  read  to  the  men 
in  arms. 

The  first  regiment  of  negro  troops  for  the  na- 
tional service  was  organized  near  Beaufort,  S.  C, 
and  there,  in  the  shadows  of  a  majestic  live-oak 
grove,  within  bugle  call  of  the  spot  where  the 
early  secession  movements  were  planned,  the 
freedmen  listened  to  the  glad  news. 

Following  the  President's  action,  the  13th  of 
October,  1864,  the  voters  of  Maryland,  by  a  ma- 
jority of  three  hundred  and  seventy-nine,  rati- 
fied a  new  constitution  for  their  State,  making 
provision  for  the  liberation  of  those  who  were 
held  in  bondage.  But  the  veteran  slaveholder 
did  not  surrender  without  a  stand  worthy  his 
boasted  chivalry.  The  Emancipation  Proclama- 
tion fired  the  Southern  heart  to  such  a  pitch, 
that  ninety-six  ministers  of  the  Gospel,  in  Rich- 
mond, Va.,  signed  a  remonstrance  and  an  appeal 
to  the  universal  brotherhood  of  Christians.     In 


THE  CHAIN   OF  THE   LAST  SLAVE.     379 

this  remarkable  document  they  asserted  the 
Union  could  not  be  restored,  and  declared  that 
the  granting  of  freedom  to  slaves  afforded  a 
suitable  occasion  for  solemn  protest  on  the  part 
of  the  people  of  God  throughout  the  world. 

The  President,  with  unfaltering  faith  and 
steady  hand  at  the  helm,  held  on  his  way  and 
wrote : 

"The  signs  look  better.  The  Father  of  Waters 
again  goes  unvexed  to  the  sea;  thanks  to  the 
great  Northwest  for  it!  *  *  *  Thanks  to 
all !  for  the  great  republic — for  the  principles  by 
which  it  lives,  and  keeps  alive — for  man's  vast 
future,  thanks  to  all !  Peace  does  not  appear  so 
distant  as  it  did.  I  hope  it  will  come  soon,  and 
come  to  stay;  and  so  come  as  to  be  worth  the 
keeping  in  all  future  time.  It  will  then  have 
been  proved  that,  among  freemen,  there  can  be 
no  successful  appeal  from  the  ballot  to  the  bul- 
let, and  that  they  who  take  such  appeal  are  sure 
to  lose  their  cause  and  pay  the  cost.  *  *,  * 
Still,  let  us  not  be  over-sanguine  of  a  speedy  final 
triumph.  Let  us  be  quite  sober.  Let  us 
diligently  apply  the  means,  never  doubting  that  a 
just  God  will,  in  His  own  good  time,  give  us  the 
rightful  result." 

In  these  troublous  times,  there  lived  in  Anne 
Arundel   County,   Maryland,  a  bright  mulatto 


38o     THE  CHAIN  OF  THE  LAST  SLAVE. 

girl  named  Margaret  Toogood.  Of  her  parent- 
age nothing  is  recorded.  She  was  born  in  slav- 
ery, as  were  her  ancestors,  accustomed  to  begin 
the  morning^s  work  at  the  sound  of  the  over- 
seer's horn,  and  pass  her  days  in  unpaid  toil. 

She  was  no  stranger  to  the  statute  which  al- 
lowed owners  of  such  as  she,  to  cut  notches, 
with  knives  and  pinchers,  in  the  ears  of  their 
property,  lash  their  backs  into  scars,  and  with 
pens  of  red-hot  iron  brand  their  initials  into  the 
quivering  flesh  of  their  human  chattels.  She 
must  have  been  familiar  with  the  fact,  that  if 
caught  in  the  street  after  a  certain  hour,  any  one 
guilty  of  a  black  skin,  unable  to  show  a  pass- 
port, was  liable  to  be  bound  in  fetters  and  thrust 
into  jail,  with  as  little  consideration  as  a  stray 
horse  would  have.  More  than  that,  if  such  indi- 
vidual happened  to  be  free,  the  justice  might 
choose  to  think  him  a  fugitive  slave,  advertise  the 
arrest  in  the  newspapers,  warning  the  owner  to 
come  and  redeem  the  prisoner;  and  if  no  claim- 
ant appeared,  he  would  be  sold  to  pay  the  jail 
fees.  Such  proceeding  was  frequent,  and  the 
bondwoman  knew  this  usage,  which  now  seems 
incredible.  Forbidden  by  law  to  learn  how  to 
read,  the  colored  race,  from  the  beginning,  has 
had  an  aptitude  for  "hearkening;"  and  exercis- 
ing her  native  talent  behind  the  chair  of  her  pro- 


THE   CHAIN  OF  THE   LAST  SLAVE.      381 

prietor,  she  learned  that  under  the  Emancipa- 
tion Proclamation  she  now  belonged  to  herself.. 
Moved  by  the  same  impulse  you  or  I  would  have 
in  like  conditions,  one  day  she  stole  softly  out 
the  back  door,  across  fields,  along  devious  wind- 
ings and  byways,  in  dim  wanderings  toward  the 
lines  of  the  Union  army.  She  was  missed,  fol- 
lowed, tracked — ^whether  with  the  keen  scent  of 
bloodhounds  or  of  men  more  brutal  than  brutes, 
I  know  not.  When  discovered  she  was  accused 
of  theft,  and  on  the  plea  brought  to  the  planta- 
tion with  a  show  of  justice.  The  master  then 
withdrew  the  charge,  as  he  merely  wanted  pos- 
session of  Margaret^s  person  and  a  return  to  the 
house  of  bondage.  Determined  to  secure  the 
prisoner,  he  ordered  a  chain  to  be  made  of  such 
material  as  was  at  hand,  fastened  it  round  her 
neck,  and  locked  it  with  a  key,  like  a  clock  key, 
which  he  carried.  By  this  she  was  probably 
hitched  to  a  post,  treated  as  a  runaway  animal. 

Report  of  the  outrage  came  to  General  Wal- 
lace, then  in  command  of  the  Middle  Depart- 
ment. He  despatched  a  squad  of  cavalry  for  her 
rescue,  and  she  was  brought  to  headquarters. 
In  the  ofifice  of  Reverdy  Johnson,  Monument 
Square,  Baltimore,  the  last  chain  of  the  slave 
was  literally  broken,  and  the  bond  went  free. 

On  my  wall  the  strange  necklace  hangs,  just 


382     THE   CHAIN  OF  THE  LAST  SLAVE. 

is  it  came  from  the  throat  of  a  young  girl  not 
yet  twenty  years  of  age,  after  it  had  been  worn, 
without  removal,  for  several  weeks.  It  is  a  for- 
bidding thing,  fashioned  of  coarsest  metal, 
wrought  in  the  rudest  manner.  The  rough  iron 
is  a  portion  of  log  chain,  once  used  by  oxen  in 
dragging  heavy  weights,  and  is  fastened  by  a 
lock  prepared  by  some  neighboring  blacksmith. 
Examining  the  mechanism,  we  must  admit  it  was 
a  safe  thing  to  trust  in  securing  merchandise  such 
as  Margaret  Toogood.  The  links  are  two  inches 
in  length,  and  its  entire  weight  is  between  three 
and  four  pounds. 

In  the  silent  city  of  the  sea— the  sweet  city  of 
Desdemona — the  tourist  finds,  among  antique 
armor  and  historic  weapons,  inventions  curious 
as  any  contained  in  the  Patent  Office — ingenious 
machines  contrived  to  inflict  extremest  anguish, 
without  loss  of  life  or  consciousness;  instruments 
of  torture,  made  to  grind,  twist,  cramp  living  men 
and  women,  all  in  the  name  of  Christ,  and  under 
direction  of  officers  of  the  most  Holy  Inquisition. 
Our  relic  of  a  bygone  social  system  would  be  well 
classed  and  properly  placed  in  such  a  collection 
as  that  which  to-day  excites  the  amazement  of 
tourists  in  Venice.  I  have  chosen  to  hang  it  be- 
side a  victorious  banner,  furled,  a  rusty  cavalry 
sword,  and  near  a  medallion  portrait  of  President 


THE   CHAIN  OF  THE   LAST  SLAVE.      383 

LincxDln.  Around  these  symbolic  mementos 
cluster  the  history  of  one  of  the  most  terrible 
ordeals  a  nation  ever  witnessed;  an  epoch  whose 
outcome  was  triumphant  as  the  struggle  had 
been  desperate. 

Before  long  the  chain  will  be  transferred — a 
perpetual  inheritance — to  the  library  of  Oberlin 
College,  Ohio,  where  we  hope  it  may  be 
touched  by  those  who  look  back  mournfully  to 
the  time  when  on  the  side  of  the  oppressors  there 
was  power. 


THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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